Contact Clan Lavellan
by ariiadne
Summary: Plagued by bandits, Clan Lavellan contacts the Inquisition for help. Commander Cullen takes it upon himself to go to their aid for both practical & personal reasons, and it has a profound effect on the Inquisitor. The development of Lavellan's relationship with Cullen in the context of the Clan Lavellan war table mission arc. Slow build. Big spoilers. Everything belongs to Bioware.
1. Contact Clan Lavellan

**Author's Note: **A few words before you start... most of the italicized sections are flashbacks that are there for flavor more than anything. Since this fic will jump around in time based on the war table missions, I do this so you get a better idea of what my Herald/Inquisitor is like (personality, etc). Feel free to skip them should you desire it, but there are two - Ora's message to Cullen and the very last section of the chapter - that you should not bypass. I say this mostly because I'm brand new to fanfiction, and I've noticed many here seem to not like retellings of canon/gameplay events. That being said, I hope you enjoy regardless. Thank you for taking the time to read. Reviews and feedback are vastly appreciated, and should you desire it, I will return the favor.

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><p><em>Of all the things one might expect the Fade to spit out after a catastrophic explosion, the rather meek Dalish girl was not one of them. Her inherently large eyes widened in fear and confusion as a severe, dark-haired woman spat out accusations and grew increasingly aggravated in her interrogation. The irons dug into her already raw wrists as the Seeker brought up the elf's bound hands, an eerie, unnatural, crackling green coursing across her left palm. It made her muscles twitch. The hooded woman's eventual interference did little to soothe her, tears freely flowing. She couldn't remember anything. What if she'd actually done something wrong? What if it really was her fault, somehow?<em>

_Her pulse quickened the longer she gazed at the Breach mangling the sky overhead. Then came the pain. The dull burn suddenly burst into sharp, searing shocks, running along every inch of her skin from its epicenter. The sensation contained the ghost of familiarity. She was well acquainted with magic, its hum and its tingles. This, though… it somehow felt… spiteful. Her brow furrowed at the thought. Even her mind knew it sounded absurd. Nevertheless, she could not find a better word to describe it._

"_I'll do what I can," she breathed, her hazel eyes continuing to paint her panic clearly on her face. "Whatever it takes."_

_Mythal protect her._

* * *

><p>Dawn crept languidly in the Frostbacks, the jagged horizon providing an extra hurdle for the light to clear. Slender fingers, stiffened by the winter cold, plucked the youngest buds from an elfroot stalk with painstaking gentleness. She gathered them in a small linen pouch, each blossom falling and settling as softly as the snow around her. She stood and moved on to the next. Only silence followed her, and the trees offered great company.<p>

By the time she made it back to Haven's gates, the modest town tucked away in the mountains began to wake. Passing the smithy, she nodded to Harritt as he fired the forge. She could hear Dennet and his stable hands scooping hay. Across the way, beyond their camp, the soldiers engaged in their warm-ups and exercises. The guards had already switched shifts, so she received a puzzled greeting rather than an understanding 'welcome back' from those stationed at the doors.

Within, early-risen passersby bombarded her with salutations. An impressive feat, given her lodgings sat mere meters from the gates in which she entered.

"Good morning, Herald!"

"Your Worship."

"Good day to you, Herald of Andraste."

"Maker watch over you, Herald."

"Lady Herald."

Ora'ana did her best to return the gestures as warmly as she'd received them, not necessarily succeeding. Did anyone even know her name? Perhaps they thought it inappropriate to use if they did. She would likely never know the answer. Besides, she needed to be 'the Herald' first and foremost – at least, according to her advisors. For the sake of the people.

But which people? Only a handful of elves resided in Haven, and most of them worked as servants. The entire reason for her attendance at the Conclave was on behalf of her clan. The Keeper believed that the outcome of negotiations would affect all elves, not just the Dalish, and so sent her to observe. And instead of returning to them, she remained as a bewildering, scandalous shemlen icon. Somehow she had a difficult time imagining this could have been what the Keeper meant.

That was not to say she did not like the Inquisition's purpose or humans, for that matter. Her clan's residence in the Free Marches gave her more than ample time among them as their aravel glided along their tenuous borders. While her clan manipulated the political climate of rivaling city-states, the farmers, traders, and families suffered it. Childhood lessons in compassion coincided with helping struggling shems on the outskirts of these provinces on more than one occasion. Should they be desperate or, perhaps, tolerant enough to accept their help, Keeper Istimaethoriel saw to it that those in need were taught to hunt; instructed on which herbs were safe to gather; or shown which paths were soundest to traverse during certain times of the year, among other things.

As she glanced absently up to the Breach in the sky, she knew better than to think the Inquisition interpreted her role that narrowly. She had to believe she was the person _everyone_ needed when they needed her. At the same time, she did not feel completely comfortable doing this all in Andraste's name. Plenty of bad hunkered in the shadow of the good done under the same Andrastian banner, the woes of the Dalish notwithstanding. It was something she had yet to reconcile, even as she fought and bled for the infant Inquisition. For all the humans knew, it might have very well been Falon'din on the other side of that rift that fateful day.

That being said, maybe it was too much to ask to be a person to everyone in Haven. She couldn't possibly know them all by name, know their life, and expect them to do the same for her. Not like back home. A question still haunted her, though. How did one go from person to symbol and survive the transition?

The answer dangled beyond her reach. Regardless, she resolved to tucking Ora'ana Lavellan away as best she could, even if just for a short time. The Herald of Andraste couldn't exactly be seen mimicking nug sounds when one scampered by or coaxing fennecs in hopes of getting a just a quick pet. The decision eclipsed mere worries of image and perception, however. A Dalish elf calling herself the Herald of Andraste came with its set of risks. Being the First of Clan Lavellan was, extraordinarily, quite a bit less intimidating. Never in her life did she think she would partake in something that was more.

Varric seemed to be the most accepting. His easygoing nature took off the edge Cassandra's constant presence offered. Not that she disliked Cassandra there. Although their relationship started off… awkwardly, Cassandra became that fountain of resolve Ora'ana could draw from whenever a demon looked her in eye, or when a templar charged hatefully in her direction at the sight of her staff. And the two of them together – the Seeker and the dwarf – made it that much more difficult to maintain her already flimsy mask. Often she resorted to biting her lip to keep the laughs from escaping. She'd lost count just how many of those disgusted groans Cassandra let out already. Yes, she very much liked those two, even if they'd only been acquainted for a month or so. Welcome distractions.

Solas seemed a mixed bag, at least at the moment. Not too fond of the Dalish, the Fade-wandering elf made that quite clear. Ora'ana had grown as accustomed as one could to negative sentiment towards elves, but never really from another. Still, his knowledge of the Fade helped them seal the rifts. She was anything if not indebted to him for that. Nevertheless, he seemed oddly pleased whenever she came to him with questions, which was often. Talking with him had a tendency to stir up homesickness; Solas reminded her so much of Keeper Istimaethoriel, and his journeys into the Fade, however terrifying in theory, mystified the Dalish girl, filling her with possibilities. If she could do as he did, what could she learn? Keepers were already tasked with safeguarding the Elven language and traditions. But much had still been lost. Imagine what she could recover. Imagine the kind of Keeper she could be.

Was that even still an option?

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><p><em>That very panic paired with the mere gut-wrenching possibility of guilt fueled her all the way to the forward camp. It made traversing the snowy, uneven mountain paths easy. She welcomed the weight of a staff in her grasp, hoping it might quell her constant shaking. If it worked, she did not notice. Too busy fending off demons falling from a hole in the sky. But she could close the rifts. She could help. But did that also mean she'd opened them as well? She prayed the confidence radiating from Solas and Varric's levity would obscure her clawing anxiety. She saw the knowing in their eyes, however. They said nothing about it.<em>

_Roderick's words stung all the more. She would later reflect angrily on the small jump her heart took when he suggested falling back. But that was not an option. When given a choice, she took little time to deliberate. Any other day, she would have chosen the mountain pass without a second thought._

"_I say we charge," she announced, puzzled by the mask of certainty coating her voice. Adrenaline had long taken over, and the ache in her arm from the mark's recent outburst felt fresh. The agony crept over her like vines. "I won't survive long enough for your trial. Whatever happens, happens now." It sounded stronger, braver than she felt. The Seeker Cassandra sent her a firm yet subtle look of what seemed to be approval. The elf did her best to keep her own disappointment from her outward expression, letting it instead settle into the pit of her stomach with the rest of her feelings. Varric's sidelong glance let her know he caught it, at least. She was no good at this._

_Andruil give her strength. She must not waver._

* * *

><p>Her quarters looked no more different than when she had first awoken after sealing the rift at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, except for maybe a change of bedspread and the various herbs hanging to dry. Never one to really accumulate possessions, Ora was unaccustomed to having such a large, stationary space to herself and often unwittingly departed soon after entering. This time, at least, she had something to do. She did not even shed her coat before placing the elfroot sprouts on the windowsill to wither. She threw a few more logs on the flames for good measure, hoping to strip the air of as much moisture as possible. The bundles already strung up were drying quite nicely. Ora then grabbed a cast iron kettle from the hearth and set it over the rejuvenated fire.<p>

Her stay at Haven would be short-lived. Mother Giselle's advice to travel to Val Royeaux to confront the Chantry was being set into motion at that very moment. They'd returned only to deposit the holy mother and deliver the horses from Master Dennet. But that did not mean a time of rest and reprieve. As soon as she left her quarters, a messenger delivered a summons to the war table at noon. Unsurprising. She'd been in brief correspondence with each of her advisors while working in the Hinterlands, only just starting to get a reign on how it all worked. Josephine in particular kept her up to date as much as possible on any developments within the Inquisition; at the same time, she did her best to explain how the rest of the world worked without writing a novel or coming across as condescending – or both. Ora'ana thought her a saint for it. A Dalish elf suddenly in charge of the fate of a world in which she barely felt she belonged? She would eat anything Josephine – or any of her advisors - fed her if it meant not letting everything crumble in her grasp.

How frustrating it must be for them, she thought. Like crowning a child king after the untimely death of his parents. Her rueful sigh came out in a large cloud. Her naiveté did nothing if not fuel her resolve for ridding herself of it. The elf grew tired of the twisting ball of guilty inadequacy lodged in her chest.

She wrung her thin hands and made her destination the stables. If horses were anything like halla, maybe she could be of some use until it was time to convene.

* * *

><p>After having accidentally interrupted Josephine's meeting with the marquis and receiving yet another lesson from the amicable Antivan, Ora walked with her to the war room where the conference was set to commence in a matter of minutes. They turned out to be the last ones to arrive; Leliana and Cullen already stood over the map. Closing the door behind them, the well-dressed diplomat joined the advisors on the opposite side of the table, leaving Ora to herself on the other: an unsettling formation.<p>

"Since we're all here, we may as well begin," Josephine initiated smoothly. "I was going to inform you sooner, Herald, but the marquis prevented me. I have something here for you." All attention lay on Josephine as she handed a piece of folded parchment to her. "It arrived this morning, from your clan."

At that revelation, Ora'ana quickly unfolded the paper and eagerly read the words. A small smile snuck its way through. The Keeper must have felt her thoughts from across the Waking Sea.

"I take it all is well?" Leliana asked. Josephine nodded.

"They simply wish to ascertain your status, Lady Herald. A relatively easy task."

"I should have sent word sooner," Ora trailed off, shaking her head in dismay. "They think I'm being held captive and ask for my release," she mused with a bit of ironic laughter lacing her tone.

Leliana let out a tickled chortle. "Talk about misinformation!"

Ora welcomed the good humor. It refreshed the overwhelmingly stern atmosphere in the war room. "The Lavellan clan has no spymaster, that is certain. They sent _me_ to listen in at the Conclave and look how that turned out." This squeezed rare chuckles out of everyone but the commander who scoured the map intently.

"Could have been worse, I suppose." Eyes sped to Cullen who adjusted some markers. A strained silence rode on the coattails of his deadpan statement. Ora blinked, grin faltering. The commander noticed and hurried to recover. "Andraste could have chosen our beloved Grand Chancellor instead." The Herald's smile returned as Leliana and Josephine jovially concurred.

"Comforting, Commander," the Herald countered in spirit. He cleared his throat, one end of his mouth climbing up his cheek.

"This really is the end of the world. There are tears in the Veil, but now Cullen's telling jokes."

"That's enough of that," he grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I thought this was a tactical meeting."

"Yes, Herald," Josephine segued, "what would you have us do?"

"Have we any agents in the Free Marches? This time of year, the clan should be in this general region," Ora indicated on the map where they'd likely be found.

Josephine combed a lock of fine hair behind her ear, her silk ensemble shimmering in the low lamplight. "Not presently, but we have options, as always. I could have one of our elven scribes take a message to your clan, so as not to alarm them and inform them of the Inquisition's fair treatment."

"A decent plan," Leliana admitted, "but the Dalish respect deeds, not words. Let my elven agents deliver something the clan needs as a show of good faith." Josephine nodded, scribbling that mote of information into her notes. It would be something she could utilize in other Dalish negotiations.

"Why does it always have to be so complicated?" Cullen chimed in. "My troops can deliver news of your safety and make it clear that the Inquisition should be taken seriously." Ora's face immediately went hot. The commander moved the corresponding pawns on the map to the Free Marches to solidify the plan in his mind, visualizing different approaches. The Herald's next words jerked him from his contemplations.

"Excuse me?"

The commander's hard brown eyes flicked up to the elf across from him. Leliana and Josephine swapped concerned looks, saying nothing. "Herald?"

Traces of disbelief and a degree of abject horror contorted most of her features. Tinges of anger, disgust, or both filled in the rest. "What do you mean by 'make clear the Inquisition should be taken seriously'?" Cullen slowly straightened, the implications of his words coming through bit by bit. "The only thing needing clarification is my well-being." Unbeknownst to Ora, the letter crumpled in her grasp. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears. "Had they not taken the Inquisition seriously, we would not be having this conversation."

Commander Cullen seemed at a loss. "Forgive me, I did not mean to come across as patronizing, or aggressive towards your clan for that matter. I only meant…" The longer he mulled over his words, the more he understood just how bad they sounded. There was no way of salvaging them. His jaw tightened. "Forgive me. I misspoke." He massaged the bridge of his nose. "This is why we have an ambassador."

Softly, she cleared her throat. The adrenaline rushed straight to her head, making it feel as if it could float from her shoulders. Numbness followed. "Leliana, if you would have one of your agents bring them a bushel or so of embrium, I—they would be grateful."

"At once, Herald."

"Ma serannas." The words came out demure, almost regretful. Josephine radiated concern though decided it more appropriate to address the matter at the conclusion of the meeting. The Antivan reenergized the room with a change of subject, though for the remainder of the conference, Ora stood stiffly, shoulders squared, limbs rigid.

"Let us discuss Val Royeaux."

* * *

><p>"<em>Lady Cassandra," he began, formal as ever though his armor dripped blood, his usually blond hair a splotchy brown, "you managed the close the rift? Well done."<em>

"_Do not congratulate me, Commander," she countered dryly, unfazed by the gore. "This is the prisoner's doing." Her gauntlet-laden arm gestured behind her, where the prisoner stood offset with Solas and Varric._

"_Is it?" Sauntering past his colleague, the commander made his way towards the group. He bolstered his voice. "I hope they're right about you. We lost a lot of people getting you here." When the prisoner's face met his, the grief and strain in her gaze almost made him rethink his tone. Her efforts to appear composed, at least, were somewhat admirable. She straightened out as best she could and maintained eye contact._

"_You're not the only one hoping that." Her answer seemed more like an aside than an actual reply, as if she did not mean to say it aloud. The commander was unimpressed, his mouth flattening into an even broader line._

"_We'll see soon enough, won't we?" At this, her eyes finally strayed to her feet, a bead of sweat rolling down her temple. His attention immediately switched to the Seeker, whom he neared once again. "The way to the temple should be clear. Leliana will try to meet you there."_

"_Then we'd best move quickly." Cassandra aimed this statement at the prisoner in hopes of dragging her from her thoughts. It worked. The prisoner took a deep breath, winced, and balled her hands into trembling fists at her side. "Give us time, Commander."_

_He shifted from one leg to another, glare landing upon each of them at least once. It lingered on the prisoner a second longer, discerning and scathing. Astonishingly, she met it. Regardless of this show of resolve, he was far from convinced. "Maker watch over you – for all our sakes."_

_Ghilan'nain grant them haste. She could not last much longer._

* * *

><p>He may not have been the best person to talk to concerning such things, but Varric was probably the least critical individual in a hundred mile radius. She would say he was the most down to earth, but that would seem like a bad dwarf joke. That, and he took talking as a sort of pastime. The sky had long grown dark, and the two of them sat in the wake of the fire roaring near his tent.<p>

"I made a fool of myself." Ora'ana's head hung despondently, her shoulders slumped and eyes cast to the dirt. Despite this confession, the charismatic dwarf let out a single chuckle.

"So that's why Curly stormed past here earlier. Don't be too hard on yourself."

"It just wasn't very… Herald-y of me."

Varric crossed his arms at his burly chest, amusement twinkling in his bright earthen eyes. "Everything you do is Herald-y. You're the Herald."

She snorted, the ends of her mouth twitching involuntarily. "You know what I mean."

"So, you're saying that just because you're the Herald of Andraste, you're not allowed to get protective over the people you care about?" Shadows danced on the elf's face, highlighting the crease in her brow and the curve of her frown. He exhaled, a grin tugging gently at his lips, fingers scratching at the stubble on his chin. "I'm pretty sure that's Andraste's thing, actually." That managed to extract a few lackluster laughs from the elf. He counted it as a small victory. "Look, if it's still bothering you that much, then talk to the others about it."

"I've already done so with Josephine."

"Then there you go."

Ora took a deep breath. The chilled air felt good in her lungs. "I guess I just needed to be talked through it. Again."

"Hey, if that's what it takes. You've got a lot on your plate. You're not supposed to carry it alone; not even Andraste did. And even though it was thoughtless, I guarantee Curly meant well."

The Herald nodded, running fingers through her dark hair. An echo of her own people's wisdom reverberated in Varric's words. _Vir Adahlen: together, we are stronger than one_. "You're right."

"You knew that. Sometimes you just need to hear it from someone else." Varric's smoky baritone might as well have been a magic more potent than her own.

For a while, they listened to the crackling of the flames. After all day of worrying about it, Ora finally began to feel peace settle into her nerves. "Careful, Varric. If you keep giving such good advice, you'll never see the end of me." She fidgeted, more truthful than she wanted to be.

"Anything to keep an audience," the dwarf retorted with a quick wink.

* * *

><p>"<em>Vir assan; fly straight and do not waver<em>."

Ora'ana lay in bed, curled on her side, knees pulled up to her chest. Normally cool nights after a day traveling with her clan made this position ideal and by all means efficient – it conserved and generated more heat.

"_Vir bor'assan; bend, but do not break_."

But this was not in the wilderness in a tent. At the other end of the room, the well-fed fireplace made the small cabin quite cozy. The blanket cast over her lithe frame carried in it the warmth of goose feathers. There was no need to conserve heat. Eyes clamped shut, her whispers continued.

"_Vir adahlen; together, we are stronger than one_."

She had not been a hunter, but Andruil's _Vir Tanadahl_ was her Chant of Light. It came as a surprise to many among her peers, at the time for her to obtain her _vallaslin_, when she announced her devotion to the Great Huntress. Typically, Firsts and Keepers alike were partial to receiving the markings of Mythal or Dirthamen for obvious reasons; even Falon'din and Sylaise made more sense than Andruil as an apprentice's choice of blood writing. That did not stop her. It hadn't been Mythal's protection or Dirthamen's wisdom; nor had it been Falon'din's guidance or Sylaise's calm touch that warded off the creeping darkness those awful nights. The fear of failure, the pressure of expectation, the paralysis of terror, the inaction of discouragement, the anguish of loss… all chased away by the Goddess of the Hunt's charge.

Guilt was trickier. Guilt had hide too thick for an arrow to pierce: a quillback whose every spine was a failed attempt. When turned away, guilt nipped at your heels with its sharp beak, each time a little harder to try to provoke your attention. Should that work, it would remain just as evasive when faced head-on, dodging in zigzags and charging when you've finally run out of arrows. That is the best time to strike, however. Guilt meant getting hurt a little, because you know you deserve it. Most times, anyway. So you let it take you down. And while it tears at you, you jam its jaw with your arm and pierce its soft gut. That bit of blood was your penance, because guilt has a purpose, if you learn from it. Never trust anyone who says it does not.

Ora's eyelids opened calmly, pupils focused on nothing at all. Sweeping the blanket from her body, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and walked to her writing desk. She'd already delivered a note to Leliana for her scouts to give to Keeper Istimaethoriel along with her own apologies for her behavior earlier. That left the commander. She penned something quickly in the dim glow. With any luck, the night guard she left it with would hand it off to him in the morning.

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><p><em>Commander,<em>

_Good morning! Or, at least I hope, presupposing this has been delivered accordingly and you have slept well. As busy as I am sure you are, I felt it best to send a note ahead to request an audience with you. Should a free moment arise, I ask that you please send word at your earliest convenience. Apologies are in order, and I would like to give them personally._

_Until then,_

_Ora  
><em>_the Herald_

* * *

><p>She'd expected a timely response from the ex-templar, to be sure, but she did not intend to be awakened at dawn with one. Groggy yet panicked, the elf scrambled to wash up and prepare her words at the same time. Distracted, she failed to notice just how bitterly the wind blew; the impending confrontation paired with her rush falsely shielded her against the weather.<p>

Ora reached the soldiers' camp to find it almost deserted. Fires still burned but there was no one to be found. Her heart sunk into her abdomen. Had she misread his reply? Digging it from a pocket, she squinted against the gale to reevaluate his note. No, she read correctly. The temperature finally began to sink into her flesh. She shivered, scanning her surroundings once again. Perhaps he was still in his tent? The commander's quarters were easy enough to spot; his tent was probably about three times the size of a soldier's, and when she entered it, she saw why. Beyond the fire pit in the center sat an austere desk heaped with scrolls and report boards. She almost thought he did not have a bed until she noticed a pile of mussed up blankets and pillows set haphazardly in the corner set not too far from a large chest. And his signature cloak hung in all its fuzzy glory on his desk chair. But no commander. She exited hastily, feeling more like an intruder than a visitor the longer she lingered.

Her next stop was the makeshift sparring ring, logs and branches encircling a barren patch of land. One hand picked up an abandoned sword from the dirt while the other rubbed futilely against her bicep in hopes of generating warmth. She ditched the effort soon enough, especially when she realized she'd need the strength of both arms to wield the blade she'd discovered. Without much thought, she brought it to a nearby dummy and began swinging as she'd seen Cassandra do so many times over. Her muscles burned almost immediately. She was not any good, to no one's wonder, but the maelstrom shrieking about her did little to help either. She let loose a few cocky laughs for each blow landed.

"For the Inquisition!" she bellowed in an octave as low and as manly as she could muster, sword lifted precariously above her head. She brought it down, as forcefully as gravity and momentum permitted, into the dummy's wooden face. And there it stayed. The elf gasped, a distressed hand to her mouth, hair whipping about in a violent frenzy. Her attempts to dislodge it were met with comical failure. She fled the scene, seeking refuge near one of the fires.

Eventually, the hum of voices and the rustle of footsteps filtered into the camp. Ora swiveled on her heel to see a contingent of the Inquisition forces return from what seemed to be a run – Commander Cullen and Seeker Cassandra both among them. Red-cheeked and windswept, the two looked quite different compared to their usual put togetherness. In particular, the matrimony of melting snowflakes, sweat, and biting gusts freed rebellious locks of the commander's hair from its customarily immaculate mold; and all at once, Varric's silly nickname hit the elf with the force of a well-placed arrow from Bianca herself. Fortunately for Ora, the weather had frozen her cheeks enough that the epiphany barely registered on her face.

"Herald," Cullen spoke, intonation a question as well as a greeting. His breathing had only just begun to even out. Cassandra regarded her as well but took her leave.

His apparent confusion confused _her_. "Commander. I… received your message."

"What?" Realization struck him suddenly, darkening his expression as he groaned. "I told him to deliver it _after_—Maker's breath, I apologize, Your Worship." He combed back his hair, only partially succeeding in restoring its typical style. "Please, meet me in my tent. I will be there momentarily." She nodded and headed that way, inhaling and exhaling methodically. Cullen's shouts to his men fought against the wind, miraculously prevailing.

Ora was in the continued process of thawing by the time the commander entered his tent.

"Forgive me again, Herald," he went on instantly, "the _messenger_," he stressed with contempt, "must have misunderstood my request. I pray you were not waiting in the cold for long."

"No," she genially lied. "No need to worry, Commander."

He seemed relieved. "Good." He rounded his way to his desk whereupon he grabbed his maned coat. "Now, there was something you wished to discuss?"

The Dalish elf scrunched her fingers to be sure they still functioned. The resulting sting was only mild: a good sign. She glanced to him from her peripherals rapidly a few times, feeling vastly unprepared for the conversation. "Yes." She faced him now, conjuring the courage to hold her eyes to his. _Fly straight, and do not waver_. "I wanted to… apologize, for my actions yesterday." The sharp ends of her ears prickled. Her heart fluttered. Had her complexion been fairer instead of a rich brown, her humiliation would have been readily noticeable.

"No need," he interjected matter-of-factly with a dismissive wave. "If anyone should be apologizing, it should be me."

She blinked a few times before scrunching her nose and shaking her head. "No, I reacted poorly." She wrung her hands at her waist. "You are all here to help me, and you all know far more than I do about, well, almost everything. Unless you have some secret knowledge of… halla shepherding, herbal teas, or elven mythology. Then everything."

A set of shockingly warm chuckles bubbled from his chest. "You sell yourself short, Herald. I do not know much about the Dalish, but you were what they call the First, yes? I can only imagine that your experiences in that regard have carried you this far, among other things."

She had never really thought about that. She'd been so focused on feeling inadequate and ill-suited that she did not realize she was maybe a bit more qualified than the average person. Something in her mind shifted. "I suppose things may have been a bit more difficult if I hadn't already been preparing to lead my own people."

"Which is why I hold nothing of what transpired yesterday against you." She gazed up to his face only to see his countenance had gone from friendly to quite grave. "Your clan is your family and was, until a short time ago, your responsibility. And I suppose if you plan to return to them after this is all said and done, that sense of responsibility remains. Despite feeling like an utter imbecile, I came to think that if you could harness that passion for the Inquisition as you do for you clan, then you would be a fearsome Herald indeed."

"A fearsome Herald of Andraste?" Ora questioned skeptically. "Wouldn't that be a bit contradictory?"

"Considering Andraste led armies against Tevinter, I would think not."

"Fair point." The wind viciously shook the walls of the tent. How effortless this conversation had become stunned Ora. She'd always known Cullen to be a reasonable man, but an approachable one? Not particularly.

"I spoke with Sister Leliana," he announced, breaking the small silence that had joined them in the tent. Gradually, he made his way from behind his cluttered desk. "She tells me you often shadow her as well as Josephine in their duties. I offer you an invitation – perhaps, when the weather is more agreeable – to spend some time among our forces. I can show you how things are done here, and hopefully get to know you better so as to avoid any more misunderstandings."

Wrangling her elated gratitude to digestible proportions was a daunting task. Her eyes, as always, betrayed her. Standing just a few feet from her now, Cullen emanated a solid patience she found surprising. "Thank you, I—" she began before inevitably faltering. Her expression sobered. "In all earnestness, I… I still hope you accept my apology whether you think you deserve one or not."

He let out a soft grunt. "I do, and likewise." He glanced to the side thoughtfully. "What is it that you say? Mass seraniss?"

"Ma serannas," she returned affably, undertones of flattery too delicate to detect. She gathered a ream of dangling hair behind her long ear. "I hope I haven't taken up too much of your time. Thank you, Commander." Bumping her fist to her heart, Ora'ana leaned forward in a modest bow before heading for the exit. He mirrored the gesture.

* * *

><p>"<em>Well, that was a disaster."<em>

_Leliana, puzzled, challenged that assertion in her glassy Orlesian accent. "What are you talking about?" She and Cullen walked nearly side-by-side after the meeting had been dismissed, he on his way back to his men and she to her tent. A good few decisions had been made while others had been thoroughly discussed. She would hardly call the productive meeting a disaster._

"_You know what I'm talking about."_

_Her thin eyebrows jumped. "Our Herald's instability or your complete lack of tact?"_

"_Both."_

"_I cannot speak for you, but I believe she is doing the best she can with what little she has. And, all things considered, she is not doing too badly. She is still growing into her Heraldry."_

"_That's not what I mean."_

"_Then what do you mean? Since when are you one to dance around an issue?"_

_He seemed frustrated that he needed to explain. "Did you not see the look on her face?"_

"_You're a human ex-templar. Shouldn't you be used to scaring elves and mages by now?" she jested darkly._

_Cassandra offered no better. "It was a misunderstanding. Move on."_

"_She overreacted a bit, yes, but you must understand the reality of the Dalish." Josephine scolded him over a desk covered in various documents the next time they met. "Civilized men, not wild animals, threaten them the most. For you to suggest a show of force because you assume they do not recognize the authority of the Inquisition sounds like any other noble finding an excuse to bully them." She dipped her quill into her inkwell. "And as if the Dalish aren't always a target already, her heretical clan is now the clan of the heretical Herald of Andraste. They are targets presently more than ever. I do not blame her sensitivity. The fact that she even considered you would do something like that, however, is another matter entirely."_

_The first part he'd anticipated more or less, but the last part bewildered the Fereldan commander. "What do you mean?"_

"_Miscommunication and misunderstanding are usually a result of disconnect. In other words, Commander, you need to be a bit more diplomatic with our Herald."_

"_Are you sure it is that simple? To her, I threatened her family."_

_Josephine briefly glanced up from her paperwork, and her eyes couldn't have conveyed more dismay if she tried. "Yes, Commander. It is that simple. What else could you do?" Cullen did not react. "Have I not said what you've wanted to hear?"_

"_Pardon?"_

"_Cassandra, Leliana, and I actually talk to each other, and not just at the war table. Apparently this incident has perturbed you enough to come to all of us about it."_

_Cullen's mood soured. "Maybe you should try being _less _diplomatic," he growled, exiting her office. Josephine heaved a disappointed sigh, resuming her work. The commander marched down the Chantry corridor, gripping the hilt of his sword. The snow snorted unhappily with every step he took._

"_You alright there, Curly?" Varric's gravelly voice called as the commander made his way to the gates. The dwarf sat by a fire cleaning his crossbow. Ignored, Varric chuckled and shook his head. "Your fur looks a bit more ruffled than usual." The glare Cullen shot him made those light chuckles transform into full-bodied mirth. _


	2. Protect Clan Lavellan

Cullen stood serenely in the hallway leading to the war room, staring out the gaping holes yet to be repaired in the stone walls. Crisp, clear, scathing, the sunlight poured in, its warmth otherwise nullified by the mountain air. Squinting, the commander watched the wind whip snow from neighboring peaks with abandon. He did not flinch when a gust of displaced flurries rushed him.

Down the small set of stairs to the right, the heavy wooden door budged open with a bit of effort; with her board in one hand and her quill in the other, Josephine resorted to pushing it with her back. Her dainty, flat shoes slipped against the dusty floor. Rolling his eyes, the commander jogged to her aid.

"Augh, thank you, Cullen. I must have someone grease these hinges." The diplomat scribbled a note to herself.

"Or you could try opening doors like a normal person." The ex-templar had long grown accustomed to her frivolity. When it came to Josephine, it was almost endearing.

"I do suppose I could hold both the board and quill in one hand… no matter. Is Leliana already in the war room?" Josephine started up the stairs. Cullen trailed her dutifully.

"I believe so, yes."

"Good. I have some news." Arriving at the formidable dual doors leading to their destination, the Antivan took one look at her occupied hands and then glanced apologetically to Cullen. He shook his head.

"What happened to putting everything in one hand?" he remarked as he pushed open yet another door.

"What happened to chivalry?" she countered jokingly. "Does being an ex-templar make you an ex-gentleman, too?" She sauntered into the room towards the massive map on the equally large table.

"Yes, I am quite the brute now," he went on, shutting the door behind him. "I rest my elbows on the dinner table and everything." She feigned a gasp. He rolled his eyes.

Leliana chuckled. "Diplomat and commander for the Inquisition: both children."

Unaffected, Josephine sifted through the various pieces of parchment on her board. "I suppose we should discuss why I called you here. Word from the Inquisitor's clan arrived not too long ago."

"Again?"

"Yes. It seems they are having trouble with bandits. As it was the last time, the matter is a relatively simple one, but it has set our dear Inquisitor on edge." Cullen grunted knowingly. "According to her latest message, she has just about resolved matters in the Fallow Mire and will head directly from there to the Free Marches. In the meantime, however, she wishes we send someone ahead of her."

Leliana cocked an eyebrow. "That is a rather… disproportionate dispersal of resources, don't you think? For bandits?"

Josephine inhaled slowly, words riding her exhalation. "These are her wishes. I did not say they were the most logical." A small pause followed as all three advisors stared at the markers on the map. Cullen cleared his throat.

"I will handle it."

The spymaster appeared entertained. "Are you so sure about that? Remember the last time you tried to help her clan?" Josephine joined in with delicate giggles.

"Consider it an attempt at redemption," the commander countered dryly, unamused. He gathered a few pawns from Skyhold's place on the map and dragged them to the Free Marches. "I will take a small force north. There, I will deal with the bandits personally."

Josephine blinked in disbelief. "Wait, _you?_ Why would _you_ go?"

"To send a message."

"To the bandits this time, I hope." Leliana clamped her lips shut to quell a smirk.

The commander glared daggers at Josephine. "You said so yourself, her clan is at risk now more than ever. It may seem like a disproportionate response, but the clan is an extension of the Inquisitor. Threatening them indirectly threatens her. Sending such a force against mere bandits will make other more formidable opponents think twice. The Inquisition will not tolerate such offenses."

Eventually, the red-haired Orlesian nodded. "Normally I would be opposed, but in the long run, this intimidation tactic could save us trouble. If it all goes well, this could be the last time we discuss her clan at the war table."

"Precisely."

Josephine tapped her chin, not entirely convinced. "I still think Captain Rylen would do just as well. I am loath to have you gone for weeks just for this."

"It must be me, Lady Josephine."

Leliana sighed. "I will have to agree, Josie."

She caved. "I suppose I can see the sense in that. Especially since she has only been made Inquisitor fairly recently."

"Good," Cullen said, making his way towards the exit, "I will begin preparations straight away."

* * *

><p>Roughly a week passed before Cullen and his men made it to the Storm Coast, boarding a ship graciously arranged by Josephine to cross the Waking Sea. It was a fine, sturdy vessel; it would carry them across the choppy grey waters in almost half the time another bulkier vessel might. Rivaini, perhaps? He had no eye for ships. He left Rylen in charge of the remaining soldiers back at Skyhold, and the captain would forward all urgent matters that may normally pass over his desk to him, wherever he may be. It was not an efficient or ideal system, but it would have to do. He prayed no disaster would occur in his absence, and he trusted Rylen to manage routine affairs with no problems.<p>

The trip made him nostalgic, and not necessarily in a good way. He had never been quite seaworthy – not that the Storm Coast made that a particularly easy task – and so much idle time let the mind wander. The latter was something he wanted to avoid at all costs. Cullen struggled to keep occupied, but reading reports and responding to letters did not pair well with the rocking of the ship. Sailors in the past told him that focusing on the horizon – a fixed, steady line – would settle his stomach. He took their advice to heart and was often on the deck holding fast to the port shroud, engaged in a never-ending staring match with the distance.

His burgeoning thoughts, however, pushed their way through his mental defenses soon enough: floodwaters against an overburdened levee. What first spilled over the top transformed into a deluge after a day or two. Memories. Responsibilities. Lyrium. Letters from his sister. Nightmares. Lyrium. Lyrium again. Worries. The mission at hand. Regrets. Lyrium. A slip of the tongue in a courtyard. Lyrium. Shame. Lyrium. Haven.

"_You stayed behind. You could have—" _We're dying, but we can decide how. _He saw the exact moment when she chose. That look in her eyes never left. He sees it then. He respected it. He regretted it. She is processing her own death and he keeps talking of trebuchets and treelines. _If we are to have a chance – if _you_ are to have a chance – let it hear you._ He could blame any number of things – fear, determination, insensitivity, obliviousness, denial – for giving her such an empty farewell. Had she not survived, it may not have bothered him so much. Had he not watched her grow, it may not have bothered him so much. Had he not let her try on heavy armor and struggle through the snow, it may not have bothered him so much. Had she not obviously waited so long in the cold to apologize to him, it may not have bothered him so much. But she did, and he did. And she's speaking with him in the courtyard and he can barely muster more than a whisper. "I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again. You have my word."_

His reasons for going to the Free Marches extended beyond politics and strategy.

Upon landfall, no one filed more gratefully into port than Cullen; the troops would set out the next morning to search for the Lavellan clan. Inquiries were made in the port town about the wandering Dalish in hopes of getting more specific directions. They marched on for three days before a pillar of black smoke rose beyond the trees and the scouts furiously cantered into camp. They burst into Cullen's tent as he was still putting on the last bits of his armor.

"Commander, ser, we've found the Dalish and the bandits." They did not need to say more.

"Maker's breath, tell the lieutenant to ready the men. Leave everything but weapons, armor, and horses. We go now." The commander scooped up his helmet and his sword, fastening the latter to his belt. "You, fetch my horse. You, give me figures." With a fist-to-heart salute, the first and second scout did as ordered, leaving the tent. Shouts almost immediately filled the air, the sounds of methodological chaos resulting afterwards.

"There are far more bandits than we anticipated, and they seem to be quite organized." The last scout followed Cullen outside, continuing to speak even as the commander mounted his horse.

"How many?"

"Three dozen, at least."

"These are no bandits," Cullen snarled as he adjusted his helmet. "And the Dalish?"

"Holding out, ser, but not for much longer. They seem to have been anticipating an attack. Their landships have been arranged in such a way that they are being used as lines of defenses; traps of a magical and mundane sort encircle the rest of the camp. Their hunters fight, but they are not equipped for this kind of combat. Apostates work to maintain barriers as archers fire from any vantage point afforded to them. Unfortunately, they are located in a valley and are at a strict disadvantage."

"Then let us delay no longer." Cullen nudged the sides of his horse and reared it into a gallop. His forces gathered on a hill overlooking the battlefield, parading into formation. His stallion paced the length of the troops at the very front line. The Inquisition's banner flew on either side of the unit. All eyes looked squarely at him, ready to receive orders. Their numbers greatly outweighed those of the enemy, so he was not worried, even if these so-called bandits were as organized as the sentry let on. The commander unsheathed his sword and held it aloft. "For the Inquisitor!" The soldiers mirrored him.

The Inquisition forces cascaded down the hillside: a stampede of red, black, and silver contrasted by rich greens with their leonine commander as the vanguard. The deafening roar of horses' hooves and ardent charges summoned from deep within their chests shook flocks of birds from branches and quaked the earth beneath them. Bandit and Dalish alike froze in shock and terror as the wave closed in. When the edge of Cullen's sword met with the first marauder's neck and his horse trampled the next nearby, the elves seemed to snap out of their stupor and rally. The Inquisition swarmed the valley, suffocating the bandits almost as easily as a snuffer puts out a candle. The skirmish lasted no more than twenty minutes.

Cullen surveyed the field as his forces cheered. Many of them had probably not even taken a swing at a bandit, but that did not seem to matter. The lieutenant approached with an almost dumbfounded look on his face.

"If you were going for effect, Commander, I would say you achieved it," he basically laughed.

"Quite," Cullen replied, distracted. He pulled on the reins of his horse, turning until he appeared to find what he was looking for. The lieutenant did not think much of it, instead focusing his attention back to the troops to bring them to order and to begin the relief effort.

Cautiously, Cullen's stallion trotted towards the heart of the Dalish camp, smoke snagging on its ankles. The elves were regrouping, many hunters still making their way back. Others dismantled traps and additional hidden defenses, magic circles on the ground fading or fizzling out in the grass. It was not long before an older elf in ornate robes started walking to meet him: the Keeper, he presumed. Halting a few meters or so from her, Cullen dismounted his horse, removed his helmet, and took a few steps forward.

"Commander Cullen Rutherford of the Inquisition," he announced to the calm elven matriarch. The color of her tattoos contrasted with her eyes, making her gaze all the more intense. He met it unwaveringly. "On behalf of Her Worship, Inquisitor Ora'ana, we offer our aid. We are at your disposal."

She did not respond right away, instead searching his face – for what, he did not know. Honesty, perhaps? "Ma serannas, Commander," the Keeper replied, a thick sorrow dripping from her otherwise strong voice like molasses. "Thank the Creators you came when you did." The reality of their timing settled into his mind quite abruptly. Had they left another day, another hour later… the clan might have not survived. He swallowed. "I am Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel, as I am sure you know."

"I do. I am honored to make your acquaintance."

"Alas, were it the time for conversation. I have wounds to tend and dead to bury."

"Of course. My condolences," he interjected, bowing his head, a bit unnerved by the nonchalance in her tone. "Please, allow us to help. Maker knows we have the manpower."

* * *

><p>By evening, the burning landships had been doused and the dead bandits gathered, their bodies thoroughly searched. Nothing of real note had been discovered on their persons, but the grade of their weapons and uniformity of armor hidden beneath unsuspecting rags suggested they were not standard highwaymen. These men had been outfitted. With so little to go on, Cullen had no choice but to pen a letter to Leliana to see if there was something she could do to help. The entire scenario screamed for further investigation. Fatigue gnawed at him. Paired with these new revelations, a headache brewed behind his eyes. He groaned as he massaged his temples.<p>

Stepping out of his tent, Cullen found the night air to help. Things had settled down for the most part; the Inquisition's camp had been successfully transplanted from its previous location to the valley, and the forces set about fires eating rations, talking to one another, buffing out armor, or combinations of all three. The tranquility slowed his thoughts. Gazing into the distance, he noticed the Dalish had finished their burials and carried on similarly. Their intact landships had been repositioned to form a semicircle around the camp, offering them a bit of privacy. An atmosphere of mourning, of course, hung over them, more in feeling than in action. He hadn't heard more than a few cries from their direction. Their halla, having returned once the hostilities had long ceased, grazed not too far away, eyes warily trained on Inquisition soldiers.

A silhouette made its way from the Dalish camp to the Inquisition's. Keeper Deshanna acknowledged Cullen's attendants as she approached him. "Commander," she greeted respectfully with a nod of her head. He returned the gesture in kind.

"What can I do for you, Lady Keeper?"

"You and your men have done plenty. I only came to thank you again. The bushels of elfroot and embrium you provided were most generous and invaluable."

"I am glad to hear it," he said, secretly relieved they gave the right offerings. "I am sorry we did not arrive sooner." If he hadn't brought so many men for his 'message,' they would have likely made it in time to prevent any casualties. He pushed that detail to the back of his mind to deal with later.

"Do not be sorry. You saved many lives arriving when you did. We have lost a few to brigands over the years. There is little we can do but move on, as we do, always a bit wiser."

The Keeper's motherly aura lowered his guard in a strange way. He barely even noticed. "A sensible outlook, though I regret the circumstances. The Inquisitor has had nothing but fond things to say of you and the rest of your people."

The elderly elf chuckled warmly against a devastated backdrop. "Has she now? When I sent her off to the Conclave, I would not describe her words as fond. Though I am sure that was mostly nerves."

"I am not at all surprised." Cullen caught himself grinning. He cleared his throat, restoring a neutral expression. The Keeper raised her tanned brow in empathetic amusement.

"I am still unsure if I should regret that or not," the Keeper went on, clasping her hands behind her. "But it seems she has adapted well enough to some unforeseeable greater purpose. A nervous thing, but she was always strong when she needed to be, even if she was trembling the whole time."

"Yes, she… she has grown into an admirable leader."

"No doubt the work of diligent gardeners like yourself, Commander."

"I am confident I only picked up where you left off, Lady Keeper. I did not have to do much, and I had help."

She laughed again. Despite the circumstances, it sounded genuine if not a little strained. A leader's mask was an easy one to identify, especially from one to another. "Such modesty!" The Keeper exhaled, tapering her mirth until it sobered. "You seem a good man, Commander. It does my heart well to know Ora finds herself surrounded by such noble company. Thank you for taking care of her."

"Thank you for sending her to us, madam."

They shared a quiet moment. "How long will you and your men be staying?"

"Likely for the next few days as we assess the situation and arrange passage back to Ferelden. The Inquisitor is also on her way as we speak, and I should like to wait for her."

"Ora is coming?" This information brought joy back into the Keeper's eyes, even if just a faint spark. He affirmed his statement. "The others will be so glad. I hope it is enough to lift their heavy spirits."

* * *

><p>They arrived in the port at dusk, and Ora resolved, even as they scheduled lodgings for the night, that she was not going to stop moving. She knew how close they were, but she could not subject her companions to anymore rigorous travel; from the Fallow Mire to the Storm Coast, the entire length of Ferelden, they rode at a pace barely tolerable. Cassandra, of course, did not complain, and neither did Bull – but he was not a horseman and he was a lot to carry. Dorian made up for both of them in the complaint department, but he stayed regardless: a show of loyalty magnified by his griping all the more. And the poor animals, she could not even begin to process her guilt for them. At almost every Inquisition outpost, they had been forced to trade out horses for their own well-being.<p>

After a good meal, she announced her plans to her squad. The Seeker objected; the Inquisitor should not travel alone, especially in allegedly bandit-infested territory. Bull supported Ora, more or less, knowing she could easy take on bandits, but as a hired sword felt little right to oppose her. Dorian sort of just stared at her for a moment, more disheveled than he'd ever been, and ordered another drink. He was supportive as well, but whether it was out of actual empathy or out of exhaustion she couldn't tell. Not like it really mattered. He deserved the night or two of rest at the inn – they all did. She could practically see his thoughts of a long bath written across his face.

In the end, she convinced Cassandra that her familiarity with the area would see her safely to her clan. A mere glance up to the night sky let her know precisely where her clan would be camped, and she could give them an exact location to meet her. Ora left soon after. Cassandra joined her at the stables nevertheless.

"We have just spent a week of doing nothing on a ship. I will ride with you." There was no use talking her out of it. She and the Seeker rode out.

What took the Inquisition's troops three days, the two of them reached late the next morning. Ora was off her horse before it even stopped moving, her legs carrying her as quickly as she could to the camp. Her breath caught at the sight of the two charred aravel skeletons. Her clan spotted her as she neared, a good many of them beckoning the others. The children were the first to reach her, jumping into her arms and latching onto her legs.

"Only the Creators know how I've missed you," she nearly cried, nuzzling the small boy's neck. "I'm so glad you're alright." Holding back tears, Ora pulled back and took a look at each of them. "You've all grown so much!"

"Ora'ana, there was a big fight," said the small girl clinging to her left calf. "They got Sa'har."

"I know… I know. It's over now." At that point, the rest of the clan had arrived. The parents of the children pried them from her body so that they could embrace her themselves. Silent tears were shed. Keeper Deshanna held her longest of all.

"Aneth ara, da'len," she cooed gently beside her ear. Ora found the words would not escape her throat so instead squeezed the older woman tighter. It ached to separate from her.

"I must speak with the captain," she admitted regretfully. Tears pooled precariously along her lower eyelids.

"Of course, da'len. We will be here." Reassuring the others she would be back soon, she swiftly made her way towards the captain's tent.

Promptly informed of her arrival, Cullen watched the reunion from afar though turned away, feeling the moment did not belong to him. Cassandra's approach went unnoticed because of this; only his assistant's greeting to her tipped him off.

"Commander," she hailed him warily.

"Lady Seeker. I am glad to see you arrived safely."

As always, Cassandra got right to the point. "I am… surprised to see you here. Was Rylen unavailable?"

"No. Sister Leliana, Lady Josephine, and I all agreed it would be best for me to oversee this mission personally."

"On what grounds?" This was not an accusatory question, just the Seeker's typical blunt curiosity.

"On the grounds that the Inquisitor's clan serves as an extension of the Inquisitor. We thought it best I come in force to send a message." Cassandra seemed unconvinced, though she would not challenge it. "And it was a good thing, too. These were no ordinary bandits."

That piqued her interest and cast the doubt from her features. "How so?"

"Armed to the teeth and armored like varghests. Organized. And there were forty-two of them." Cassandra scoffed. "There is obviously something else at play here. I have already sent word to Sister Leliana to see if she can find anything further. We found few clues."

"I am sure the Inquisitor will appreciate it." As if summoned by the Seeker's statement, Ora'ana joined them. Out of breath, the elf squinted her eyes at the sight of Cullen, thinking it maybe a trick of her sleep-deprived mind.

"Commander?"

"Inquisitor."

A peculiar expression came over her. He wrote it off as confusion. "What are you doing here?"

"I will have a report for you later, my lady. Please, join your people. Everything is being taken care of." She had neither desire nor energy to argue. She managed a breathy "thank you" before going back the way she came. Cullen's mouth slanted, stealing a quick look to the Herald scurrying away. "She looks like she hasn't slept in days."

"That is because she hasn't."

He exhaled. "Hopefully now she will rest easy."

Cassandra looked to the Dalish as well. "Perhaps."

* * *

><p>The Inquisitor met Cullen in his tent around sunset. She looked a bit more rejuvenated but no less drained.<p>

"Here is the report I mentioned earlier." Cullen handed her a few sheets of parchment. "With a perimeter secured, our scouts have confirmed the bandits have been routed. They pose no more danger to your clan."

"Thank you again, Cullen. I would hug you, but the Fallow Mire refuses to leave my skin. I would not subject you to that." The elf scanned the words with weary eyes, dark crescents carved beneath them.

"I am sure you exaggerate."

Ora chuckled, looking to him. "A gentleman to the end. But I am far too tired for shame or denial. The least I could do is spare you."

"Merciful as always, Inquisitor. Perhaps another time."

She grinned absently before her mouth dropped to a concerned line. "What's this about suspiciously well-armed bandits?"

"Let us discuss it in the morning."

She paused mid-page turn, analyzing his face. "Why, is it bad?"

The commander's forehead creased. "Is… what bad? The report?"

"The smell."

"Maker's breath, no! I just thought you might like to get some rest. There are no pressing matters to attend."

She narrowed her eyes, skeptical but mostly delirious. She relented. "A bath and change of clothes would be nice. But I will be back first thing in the morning to discuss your report."

"Of course." Ora bowed her head in farewell. He watched her near the exit. "Sleep well, Inquisitor."

Swiveling on her heel, the elf walked backwards so that she might address him and continue on at the same time. "Let us hope," she answered playfully, "I may die if I don't." He found her silly, sleepy grin faintly infectious. "Pleasant dreams, Commander."

They wouldn't be, but the words almost made him hope they might. The sounds of her footsteps faded into whispers in the lush grass. The commander remained still for a spell. Hating himself took a lot of energy; motionlessness ensured what little he had left from the day found its way to his current mental project. Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose.

He'd always been easy to fluster, ever since he was a boy. Being a templar and becoming a commander apparently did not change that. He never grew used to making a fool of himself. Admittedly, however, there was something acutely disagreeable to it happening regularly in the presence of the Herald of Andraste and leader of the Inquisition.

The part that worried Cullen was the consistency. He found comfort only in the fact that it usually came about at her prompting; she proved dubiously adept at finding the tiny fractures in his shell. At least his shortcomings did not manifest often otherwise. He was beginning to wonder if she was doing it on purpose. Certainly not at first, but he was inclined to believe so lately, especially after that Sera girl and Dorian had been recruited. She'd grown nothing if not gradually more blithe in their company. Whether that influence would be good or bad remained to be seen. Needless to say, she smiled more and she laughed more. If that was a result of the friend of Red Jenny and the Tevinter mage, then, well, he supposed it was good. Not good for his ego, maybe. But good for her. And that, too, was comforting.

That last thought resonated like a chord in his mind, the vibrations sinking listlessly into every muscle and bone. For a moment, there was only a dim humming in his ears and a pool of warmth searing his abdomen. His armor a crucible, Cullen felt his skin suddenly ooze with heat. He clamped his eyes shut.

Unprofessional, immature, and foolish. He repeated that in his head over and over again. Shame wrung that molten feeling from his stomach. He vowed he would not let history repeat itself. Did he forget what happened the last time he let ridiculous emotions merge with his responsibilities? The demons in his subconscious made sure to remind him every night. They were usually skillful at dissolving such sentiments in their barest infancy. Cullen had actually come to rely on that. He did not need anything else toying with his head. His duties, the nightmares, and the withdrawal were more than enough.

Yet the night terrors did little. The nonsensicality of the situation hounded the commander. Within the Inquisition, capable and beautiful women surrounded him, and they had even before the Herald appeared. Leliana was brilliant, fair, and resourceful. Josephine was sophisticated, caring, and exotic. Cassandra was solid, sharp, and striking. He may have been nervous around them at first, but it was never anything as humiliating, and it did not linger. What was so different, then, about this?

He endeavored to dissect it, but condensing the Inquisitor like he had with his other female colleagues greeted Cullen with trouble. Rather demure, the Inquisitor could metamorphose depending on circumstances; much as Keeper Deshanna said, she was resilient when she needed to be. That was changing, however. Either the need had become more incessant and therefore demanded continuous strength from her; or the Inquisitor herself was just stronger and had to compensate far less. Either path was admirable enough, though he believed the latter to be a more accurate interpretation. After what transpired at Haven, he doubted anyone would argue the contrary.

Adroit with a staff, the Inquisitor also posed a decent threat in combat, her abilities stretching into a variety of schools of magic. But she was fond of offensive magic most of all, which one would not be able to discern from her disposition alone. He hadn't personally witnessed it, but he'd heard stories circulating – undeniably the work of Varric – of how she manipulated the battlefield with walls of fire and bolts of lightning. If the truth was anything like he'd heard, it was something Cullen wished to see. Magic still made him grit his teeth just a bit, but the imagery of the willowy Dalish elf raining hell on her enemies entertained him greatly.

Elves had always seemed problematically fragile to him. Even the men had relatively slender builds. The Inquisitor was no different. He knew it a disservice to her that he question her durability, especially after everything that happened, but that logic apparently refused to register with his brain. Cullen recalled the disappointing moment he first saw her. At the time, he wasn't sure he could think of a worse candidate to seal the rifts, save maybe an elderly man or sick child. Somehow, though, she managed. The thought of coaching her frustrated him initially. The demons and the Breach weren't waiting for anyone. The hours spent explaining could have been spent solving problems. If the Herald had only been someone more formidable with a bit more experience, things might have gone differently. But she surprised them all. Her current position paid testament to that.

His rash and bitter judgment of her then seemed like an insult now. Viewing her with a certain… fondness seemed like one as well, in its own way. She would speak to him, and he would get distracted to the point where he would miss her words. He blamed it on headaches. Cullen never thought he would be grateful for them. He could be sitting at his desk one minute, poring over documents, and the next he would be wandering some overblown reverie, wasting precious time and neglecting his work. And for what? To map her freckles like constellations? To over-analyze each smile, each look, each laugh, each tease, each purported 'signal'? To gauge every possible outcome of a simple touch? To ponder if she even found humans appealing? Useless thoughts. Pathetic questions.

It was hurting the Inquisition. This was no different than the lyrium, he concluded. Whatever pain it brought, he could endure. He just had to wait for it to pass from his system.

Letting the curtain fall over the entrance to his tent, Cullen signaled to the rest of the world that he was done for the night. For once, he chose the nightmares over his waking thoughts. They seemed more merciful.

* * *

><p>The following morning Cullen sat, barely awake and plagued by a throbbing headache, behind his desk.<p>

"The Inquisitor here to see you, ser."

He blinked the blur from his eyes after spending ten minutes massaging them to no avail. "Show her in."

She entered, and he stood up a little quicker than he'd anticipated. She looked only a fraction less tired but refreshed, cinnamon skin vibrant against her pale tattoos. In her hands she carried a tray of what seemed to be an oddly shaped ceramic teapot accompanied by a pair of cups and saucers, a small wooden box, and a bowl of fresh berries. A clean set of Dalish robes clung to her thin figure. Barefooted, she appeared natural and comfortable, bright and warm. The previous night's rationalizations evaporated.

"Is something wrong?"

Words came to him with mild difficulty. "Just a headache, Inquisitor. Nothing to worry about." She gave him a discerning look. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm afraid I'm also not much of a tea drinker."

Disappointed, Ora set the tray upon his desk. Her damp hair hung in loose dark waves atop her shoulders. It had grown longer since she first joined the Inquisition, he noticed. "Oh, that's alright." She sat in the chair Cullen set opposite him on the other side of his desk, a bizarre glint in her eye. "I _was_ looking forward to seeing your future, though."

He lowered himself back into his seat, unsure he'd heard her correctly. He tried not to sound rude. "Forgive me… what?"

"A Dalish tea ritual," she explained candidly, grabbing the wooden box from the tray and opening it. "The leaves in your cup tell you your future."

He let out a sheepish chuckle. "I'm afraid I'm rather ill-acquainted with Dalish customs." Reaching into the container, Ora began to sprinkle loose tealeaves found within into one of the cups. Cullen watched intently before clearing his throat. "How does it work, exactly?" he inquired, albeit cautiously.

Ora tried to mute her delight at his apparent interest. "Oh, it's really quite simple. You drink your tea with the leaves loose in the water. When you are just about finished, you look at the messages left by the leaves."

Cullen raised an eyebrow. "And you can attest to its… accuracy?"

"Of course! Why, do you not believe me?"

"No, not at all. It's just…"

An expression of comprehension overcame her. Her atypical spiritedness fizzled out almost instantly. Slight concern and repentance replaced it. "O-Oh! I understand. I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable."

Cullen finally realized the nature of her assumption. Sitting up with a jerk, the commander waved away the notion. "No, you don't—it doesn't make me uncomfortable, Inquisitor. That is not what I meant."

A pinch of relief colored her face, but she still seemed wary. "Are you certain? You do not have to go against your beliefs simply because of who I am. I really would not be offended in the slightest."

Cullen gradually settled back down into his chair. "I am quite certain," he rejoined in his standard tone. "There are no spiritual crises to be had from a cup of tea, _Herald of Andraste_, I assure you."

Ora smirked appreciatively, tickled. "Would you care for a cup, then, Commander?"

He really didn't want to drink the tea. He was, however, nothing if not a _bit_ curious about this future nonsense. "Why not." Ora poured water into the cup she had been preparing before.

"Let it steep for a minute or so," she instructed as she held the cup and saucer out to him. "After that, drink carefully so you do not swallow any leaves. Only drink a little more than half, however. Do not drink all of it."

That was good news at least. Cullen followed her instructions though was unable to hide his distaste when he took the first sip. Resolving to be done with it as soon as possible, the commander downed the rest with haste. He looked askance. "Now what?"

"Gently swirl the remaining tea three times, from left to right." He did so, accidentally spilling a bit over the rim. He cursed; she smiled wider. "Give your cup to me." Ora took it, placed the saucer atop it, and then turned it over. The tea drained into the saucer. Rotating the teacup back upright, she got up from her seat, rounded the desk, and arrived at Cullen's side. She held it out to him, its insides smeared with leaves.

"Now what?" he repeated, just as obstinately as before.

"You look for patterns, for symbols. The nearer the symbol is to the bottom of the cup, the farther away it is from the present."

He was skeptical, but he did not want to come off as impolite. "Right…"

"See anything?" Ora hovered over his shoulder, examining his cup as well.

He turned the dish in all directions, trying to make sense of it. He vied to make the task enough to distract from her proximity. "No."

Ora's mouth scrunched into her cheek. "Here, let us see." She leaned a little closer. "Ah, right there! That looks like a sword." She pointed. "See? And it is close to the rim. Did you not just participate in a battle?"

Instead of following her fingers to the image in the cup, Cullen's eyes followed her arm to her shoulder, up her neck, and to her face. "And that is what that means?"

"It could. Is that what you think it means? Is there another battle going on? It doesn't have to be so literal. Are you quarreling with someone? Are you conflicted about something?" A taut silence. "Well, let us move on. Sometimes you need to see the whole picture to make sense of the parts. Keep turning, keep turning… are you looking at the leaves as well as the spaces between the leaves?"

"Maker's breath, I thought you said this was simple."

She laughed. Cullen soured at the resulting goosebumps. "Giving up already?"

"Of course not." His self-loathing came across as determination. She grinned ear to ear. "That, there. Birds, perhaps?"

"Yes, those do look like flying birds."

Cullen reacted more excitedly than he'd intended. "A message, then?"

"Is that what birds mean to you?"

"Well… I mean, I suppose. We use Leliana's crows to communicate."

"Then it must mean you will be sending or receiving a message in the near future! What kind of message, I wonder? Can you discern anything else near these birds?"

"Andraste preserve me," he breathed, squinting and turning the cup some more.

She laughed again, uncurling. "You do not need to continue, Cullen. How is your head?"

He opened his mouth to say something but stopped. He resumed after thinking. "Better, actually."

"Good, I am glad." Ora returned to her seat across from him. He stared, dumbfounded and concerned. "Do not look so worried! It was merely an elfroot infusion that needed time to take effect. The tea works more gradually than, say, a draught."

Cullen's amber eyes darted from side to side before setting on her again. "All of that was to just get me to drink it?"

"Yes, and it worked just as well as it does on the children." Ora bit her lips to keep her smug smile from fully developing. Cullen might have been reacted had he not been so puzzled.

"So… there is no sacred Dalish tea ritual? The leaves mean nothing?"

Ora blinked. "I didn't say that. The leaves do indeed speak. I actually do this often… less often now, but when I first joined the Inquisition, I was practically doing it before and after every meeting, hoping I'd made the right choices."

This got a slight rise out of the commander. "You cannot tell me that every decision you make is based off of the smearings of tea leaves."

She couldn't help but be a bit offended. "N-No, of course not." She leveled. "It merely offered me comfort, like a prayer might to you. The shapes you see show you what you are really thinking about, where your real concerns lie."

Cullen stole an absent glance back to the interior of his cup. "I see."

"So tell me, Commander, do you have an idea of what message you are hoping to receive in the near future?"

"The news that Samson has choked on his dose of red lyrium would be nice."

Ora conspicuously brightened, the dark humor hitting its mark. "Ah, that would be wonderful, wouldn't it? Let us hope."

* * *

><p>Two empty teacups rested in the tray on Cullen's desk, and the bowl of berries stood nearly depleted. The commander sat, elbows resting on the arms of his chair with his gloved fingers hovering above in his lap. Ora scanned the report for the third time. "What do you think this means?"<p>

"I wish I could say for certain. It could very well be happenstance, but I tend err on the side of caution."

The elf exhaled. "Then they are being targeted. Because of me."

"We always knew this would be a possibility," he delicately replied. Josephine's wisdom all those months ago resurfaced in his memory.

"I know. That does not make it sting any less. Some of them are dead, but far fewer than what could have been."

"I… hope you did not lose anyone dear." It sounded a lot more thoughtful in his head.

A sad grin flickered across her lips. "They are all dear, but I understand what you mean. I knew two better than the rest."

"My sympathies."

"Thank you. They will all be missed." _Falon'din guide them._

A thick, leaden silence fell over them. Ora twiddled her fingers in her lap, blinking away moisture and clearing her throat to assert composure. Whipping hair from her face, the elf met Cullen's patient gaze. He did not seem intent on restarting conversation until she was ready. The stillness was therefore not an awkward one, but one of understanding. Ora's chest swelled. The commander always carried such a bolstering aura about him; and a strange softness emerged from him as well after the events at Haven. She couldn't be more thankful for it than right then. Her gratitude far surpassed those corny details, however. How could she ever possibly express her appreciation for saving her clan? For traveling all the way to the Free Marches himself with a small army to do so? Her main worry was that she might come off as unprofessional. She was more than just the Herald of Andraste now; she was the Inquisitor. Her heart, however, was yelling at her to hug the man until her arms fell off.

What was she thinking? She was _the Inquisitor_. Surely she had moved past such trivialities? It was as simple as asking Cullen what he thought was suitable. They knew one another well enough at that point. Even if they hadn't, it was the mature thing to do.

Easier said than done. Ora stammered slightly. "May I ask you something, Commander?"

"Of course."

"I know you stated in your report that you came here with… tactical motivations. Despite this, you have… you have done something for me beyond anything—" She continued before he could interrupt with what she knew was probably dutiful dismissal of what inevitably came next. Ora resorted to blurting it out. "What would be an appropriate way to thank you?"

Regardless, Cullen held to his humility. "Inquisitor, you need not thank me. I was simply doing—"

"—I know what you were doing, Cullen," she cut in, "but, please. I must. You have to understand." He did. His lack of objection conveyed that. Ora released a shaky exhalation. "So, what do you think? Perhaps a nice dinner when we return to Skyhold? You know how Josephine loves arranging parties. Maybe you have something special I could have Varric find for you? He located that – what was it? – cocoa, for Bull. I've come across quite a few rare bottles on my journeys; I have a bit of a collection now, though I rarely drink, so they go neglected. You may have your choice of one, or three, o-or all of them, frankly." Ora at last recognized her spiral. Running fingers through her hair, the elf fought off embarrassed chuckles and a deep burning in her cheeks.

Cullen looked at her with an interesting amalgamation of worry, amusement, and confliction. He firmly believed he did not deserve any sort of thanks. His pay was the only reward he should receive for merely doing his job, especially in this situation. He did not do this for her indebtedness, inasmuch as he did not do it simply for strategy. It was… complicated. Watching her struggle with it posed its own problems and convoluted it further.

A soldier decided it was a good time to enter. "Commander, Inquisitor, a courier arrives from Wycome." Ora and Cullen exchanged a knowing look. This conversation would have to resume another time.

"Well? Show him in," Cullen ordered. The soldier brought a fist to his heart and went to retrieve the envoy. Getting up, the two of them congregated at the center of the tent. They awaited the courier's appearance side-by-side. It came seconds later.

"My lady Inquisitor," the uniquely uniformed man began, "Commander. I bring word from his respected Duke Antoine of Wycome. He extends his greetings as well as his thanks for handling the bandits. They have been terrorizing our borders for some time. As compensation, he sends me with an offer: hospitality for your forces until your departure and sanctuary for Her Worship's clan as long as they stay within Wycome's jurisdiction."

Cullen grunted. Ora stiffened, glancing to her advisor in hopes of reading his reaction. "This could solve all of our problems," he offered tentatively.

"Let us send word to Josephine," Ora added in a hushed voice between the two of them. "She said she had a diplomat available in Wycome. There may very well be political implications."

"At your word, Inquisitor," he rejoined in an equally muted tenor. They maintained eye contact for a moment or two as she deliberated.

Ora squared her shoulders and faced the courier. "Tell Duke Antoine that we humbly accept his generous offer. Our forces will arrive in Wycome by dusk." The envoy said nothing, instead giving one last, deep bow before heading out. She and the commander were again alone.

"I will send word to Lady Josephine and begin mobilization. You should go talk to your Keeper."

"Yes, she will need to know everything." Once she did, Ora was sure the Keeper would understand why staying near Wycome was the best thing for the clan. At least for now, until they figured out exactly who was targeting them. And the families of the deceased… she would beg their forgiveness. Her gut tumbled at the prospect of it all. But she swallowed the bitter pill. She was getting used to the taste. _Fly straight, and do not waver._

* * *

><p>Dorian plopped down dramatically next to Iron Bull who ate his rations by a campfire. Wrapped in a blanket, the Tevinter mage positively exuded crankiness. Their recent travels had worn him down quite a bit; his hair disobediently refused to adhere to its usual flawlessness, and his moustache curled sadly (insofar as moustaches could convey such emotions). It only worsened when he spied Ora leaving the commander's tent. She jogged towards the aravel. Dorian groaned wretchedly.<p>

"There she goes again. Where are we going now, I wonder? Rivain? Seheron? The bottom of the ocean?"

Iron Bull chuckled, scooping food onto his disproportionately small fork. "Wycome."

Dorian shot him a venomous look. "How do you know?"

"A messenger just left wearing a fancy emblem," he answered matter-of-factly, the food already in his mouth gathered into one cheek. "My guess is that some noble there wants the privilege of offering help to the Inquisition."

"I do not care what they want, so long as it involves baths and beds and civilization."

Bull's broad shoulders jumped with a solitary laugh. He enjoyed the mage's colorful bitterness. "You could get your wish. The commander just sent off a bird and is speaking with a lieutenant. I figure we'll be hearing about it very soon."

Dorian's eyes narrowed as Bull's fork scraped against a nearly bare plate. He glared resentfully for a good minute. "Pray tell, Bull, what else do your cunning Ben-Hassrath eyes see? How does the bird feel about flying all the way back to Skyhold? What color are the commander's small clothes? Is every blade of grass _conspiring_ to _stain_ my _boots?"_

Bull scraped the last bits of his rations into his mouth directly from the plate. He suppressed a small belch. "I've got something that will cheer you up, Vinty."

Dorian huddled in his scratchy blanket like a disgruntled owl. "Oh, do you? Let me guess: a copy of the Qun." He gasped, flipping the pages of an imaginary book. "_And_ signed by the Arishok? How did you _know?_ Oh, wait, qunari spy. Yes, how could I forget? At least you know _just _what to get people for their Name Day. You must get invited to all the parties."

Unfazed, the qunari put his hands behind him and leaned back, waiting for Dorian's tantrum to pass. He took nothing the miserable lump two feet away said personally. Instead, he let the subsequent silence absorb whatever remained of Dorian's misdirected spitfire. He waited. "Our commander has a _thing_ for the boss."

Dorian's tired eyes glided from one side of his sockets to the other. He blinked heavily, unenthused. "I know I am so easy to tease, Bull, but do not abuse me with such wonderful lies, I beg you. My heart could not take it."

"I'm not lying." Bull picked at his teeth.

Apparently perturbed by this assertion, the Tevinter sat up straight. "How in Thedas does a heartless qunari like yourself pick up on such things? Does the Qun even allow feelings? Here, let us have a lesson, Bull. Vocabulary first. _Love_ is when people—"

"Why don't you shut your pretty mouth and just look, huh?" He flicked whatever he'd excavated from his gums into the grass.

For the first time that day, Dorian did so without sassing for the first few seconds or so. "And what am I looking at, exactly, besides our chiseled Fereldan commander? _Can_ you tell the color of his small clothes? For purely academic purposes, of course. It would help my focus."

"Just wait. Boss will be back soon. Watch his eyes when he thinks no one is looking."

"Lust is hardly intriguing, Bull. I am quite sure plenty of gazes have strayed along our good Inquisitor's bodice, pretty little thing that she is. Have you seen those eyes? Those long elven legs? I'm sure _some_ might find her small breasts charming. The commander is but a man, after all."

Bull shrugged. "It might distract you from the bugs, at least."

"Ah, yes, there is that. Good thinking." They kept vigil, waiting for Ora to return. Dorian, characteristically enough, could not keep quiet for long. His mood had improved exponentially, though, like a switch. "I must admit, the accusation is still a bit shocking, all things considered," he pondered seriously, thumb and index finger pinching his chin. "The commander seems like too much of a pious, proper gentleman to pursue such things."

"That's what makes it so entertaining," Bull roguishly growled. "You can see the guilt show up after every inappropriate thought."

"You are cruel, but I expect no less," Dorian expressed with pointed articulation. "I actually quite enjoy it."

Bull didn't miss a beat. "Didn't know you were into that sort of thing."


	3. Break Venatori Hold on Wycome

**Author's Note:** This chapter is particularly fluffy. I hope it's not too silly. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Varric Tethras bobbed about on his horse with an oddly warm look of amusement splashed across his rugged features. With his back to Crestwood, he and his companions finally embarked on their long trek to return to Skyhold. The group before him was stranger than fiction. There was the Inquisitor, of course, accompanied by Seeker of Truth Cassandra Pentaghast and Warden Blackwall. In addition to these individuals, however, rode two new faces.<p>

The first belonged to the Champion of Kirkwall, his steadfast friend, Indira Hawke. The Seeker aligned her horse parallel to the Champion's, question after tentative question tumbling from her pale, thin lips – seeking the truth of Hawke's many adventures, no doubt. Luckily he'd given Hawke ample warning. He probably could say something to the Seeker, but why ruin it? He garnered far more enjoyment from Cassandra's starry eyes than her icy glare. Even after their tussle after Hawke arrived in Skyhold for the first time, Varric was quick and eager to forgive. It was worth it. Especially after he learned her little secret.

Beyond those two trotted the Inquisitor and their cloaked Grey Warden liaison – the famous Alistair, cohort of the Hero of Ferelden. He was no less a hero himself, but he seemed to gladly shovel all of the recognition and honor to his colleague. Like Cassandra to Hawke, the Inquisitor asked her own polite and enamored questions to the Warden. Unsurprising, not only because the Hero of Ferelden was, well, the Hero of Ferelden, Thedas' savior and ender of the Fifth Blight – but also because the Hero also happened to be Dalish.

"I'm going to be answering that question for the rest of my life," Alistair mused with a light-hearted exhaustion. _"Yes,_ I was there. It was _big_. The Hero of Ferelden was _brave_." Ora grew slightly flustered at the singsong reply; it was obvious Alistair had little interest in discussing what he had probably retold thousands of times – Varric had no idea why, given the vast potential – and he guessed she did not want to bother him. The weathered Warden noticed her withdrawal, however, with a curious repentance. He then continued without prompting. "But that was ten years ago. 'What have you done for us lately, Alistair?' New times, new problems."

Ora brightened somewhat at this, though she seemed to wise up, receiving Alistair's message. Talk strayed to the Wardens' recent behavior and then to good old Corypheus as a result.

These exclusive conversations went on for some time. Varric did not tire of them, nor did he feel particularly left out. These were moments he needed to absorb. Observation made up a good chunk of storytelling. From a pocket, the rogue extracted a small, leather-bound notebook and miniature pencil. His notes were never too detailed; mostly key words and echoes of feelings. Maybe a sketch or diagram or two. Sera somehow managed to sneak a few of her own works into the margins in places he'd failed to do so, giving her personal interpretation of people, places, and events with her signature vulgarity. Varric had no idea how she managed it, but that let Sera, in a sense, write herself. Though her illustrations made him wonder about her sometimes. Varric scratched his chin and laughed to himself.

The only time he decided to speak up was when the chatter seemed to die down.

"Inquisitor," he called from the back of the group, tearing the elf from whatever thought she'd been processing, "apparently there is a new wager going around in Skyhold."

"Oh?" Her voice scratched, and she attempted to clear her throat. "And what's that?"

"The Herald of Andraste versus the Champion of Kirkwall. Two beautiful mages head-to-head in ruthless magical combat."

Hawke threw back her head in hearty mirth before cutting off suddenly, voice even. "Against that thing on her hand? I don't think so."

"Our good Inquisitor here is a reasonable woman. I'm sure she would agree to some rules."

"This is absurd," Cassandra injected bitterly.

"Don't worry, Lady Seeker, I've already marked you down for Hawke." Varric pretended to check something off in his journal. This got the reaction he was hoping for. Or, rather, reactions. So many emotions fought their way for control of Cassandra's face. Blackwall barked a single laugh.

Ora let loose a few giggles as well but was interrupted by a short bout of coughs. "You wound me, Cassandra," she managed, sending the dark-haired a pair of wounded puppy dog eyes only her elven eyes could give. Cassandra merely groaned and rolled her own. "Who else has bet against me, Varric?"

"I'm afraid I can't say. That would be a breach of… gambler confidentiality."

"And yet you simply announce my vote?"

Ora gasped, feigning offense. "She admits it!"

"No!" Cassandra scrambled. "I only mean—ugh." She knew it was pointless arguing.

Varric could not have asked for more.

But he got it. As the days dragged on, their charmingly innocent Inquisitor gathered the courage to further question Alistair. And he actually answered, this time with much less chagrin, but Varric attributed that perhaps to pity; Ora's health noticeably began to deteriorate. The circumstances in Crestwood were ripe for something of that sort to happen: wind, rain, drafty lake caves, the undead, angry spirits, and bandit strongholds, among other things. As always, though, Ora trooped through it as best she could. Her insatiable curiosity and Alistair's apparent compassion gave birth to priceless notes.

"Congratulations," Varric said to the fallow-haired Warden one night after Ora left for bed. "At this point, she might give you the Inquisition if you asked."

Alistair shook his head, a lingering sadness penetrating his laughter, as it always did. "You get used to it when you're this charming. It's a good thing you're taking notes."

"I can't argue with these results."

A quiet fell over them. Alistair gazed into the campfire, his next words more like an afterthought. "I do suppose I have an unfair advantage. Dalish women love their stories."

Varric knew when not to push, not to pry. Especially the way the Warden's eyes stared inward more than outward. The dwarf's broad, square shoulders bounced. "She didn't stand a chance."

* * *

><p>Skyhold's otherwise imposing walls made for a welcome sight. The party crossed the bridge against the gusts, clinging desperately to their cloaks as the canyon yawned below them. Dennet's stable hands met them in the lower courtyard to relieve them of their horses. The others dismounted with few problems; Ora, on the other hand, practically fell off the saddle, the reins the only thing keeping her from meeting the dirt. Closest to her, Alistair helped the Inquisitor to her feet.<p>

Apologizing and thanking him in the same tattered breath, Ora smiled weakly. "Are all ex-templars such gentlemen?" she rasped, gripping the fugitive Warden's sleeves. Her forehead shimmered with a thin layer of sweat.

Alistair chuckled airily. "Only the devilishly handsome ones." Ora responded with her own laughter, but it very soon devolved into coughs that rattled her slender frame. "Oh, I think I spoke too soon. Killing you isn't very gentlemanly of me, is it?" This only made her laugh harder and thus hack more violently. Her efforts to contain them made her visibly quake. "I should just stop talking." He could probably count how many times he'd ever thought that on one hand.

Cassandra intervened at this point, Varric and Blackwall at her heels, all three concerned. The Seeker removed Ora from Alistair's grasp.

"You don't look so good."

Cassandra scoffed at Varric's pointing out of the obvious. Her hard gaze fell to Blackwall. "If you could show Ser Alistair to his accommodations." It was not a suggestion. "And Varric… go wherever it is you go." The dwarf gave Ora one last look before making his way over to Hawke.

"You will be comfortable, Ser Alistair," Ora wheezed. Maintaining a semblance of control and dignity grew increasingly more difficult, much like her breathing. "I have communicated with our… Josephine has arranged…"

"Take her," Blackwall interjected. Cassandra nodded and steered the Inquisitor to the stone staircase leading to the upper courtyard. He turned his attention to his fellow Grey Warden. "Let's go, then, before things get out of hand."

_Out of hand?_ he wondered but tailed Blackwall without a word. He got his answer when the mild panic became audible beyond the main hall where the Inquisitor was seen, delirious with fever and starved of oxygen. The bearded man led him to the battlements and eventually to a small tower. He threw open the door.

"Here you are, then. Looks cozy enough. Knowing Josephine, you will be provided for."

"Ah, yes, well, you can tell this Josephine I am grateful, but it's not nearly as damp or dark or _moldy_ as my usual tastes. Better luck next time." Alistair sauntered into his new quarters with a scrunched look on his face.

Blackwall chortled. "Someone will be here to attend you soon, I'm sure. They will answer any questions you have."

They saluted each other in typical Warden fashion before Blackwall left Alistair to himself. Hanging up his cloak, removing his boots, he warmed by the fire for a short time. When the travel weariness began to catch up to him, he sought out his bed. He stopped short of sitting upon it, however, when he spotted a bowl of peaches resting on his nightstand.

_"What's it like being a Warden?"_

_Alistair peeked briefly over his shoulder to Blackwall who shrugged, though an understanding expression masked his face. The Inquisitor must have already asked him a similar question. Despite his displeasure, Alistair humored her, though he could not completely discard his irritation. "Oh, it's wonderful! You get fresh peaches delivered every morning, first choice of local village girls, and bunnies, too! Well, maybe it's not that. Not even close to that." Instantly, her large eyes dimmed and strayed to the ground._

Alistair sighed, arms crossed at his chest, fighting a smirk. "What, no bunnies?"

* * *

><p>The commotion in the main hall drew the attention of Vivienne overhead, a slim hand resting gently on the railing as she gazed down below, as she often did. Her choice of quarters may have confused some at first; many probably assumed she would want her own wing. But the balcony suited her more than any other space; it allowed her the privilege of simultaneous inclusion and detachment from the goings-on in Skyhold. She wielded a subtle yet powerful influence as she dangled expertly between presence and absence, here and there, everywhere and nowhere. And it was precisely this that allowed her to witness the Inquisitor return, hanging off the Seeker's shoulder, barely able to breathe, while at the same time permitting her to gather some of her things as the situation beneath her skirted the edges of chaos.<p>

She would already be waiting in Ora'ana's quarters when Cassandra finally got her there, arranging all manners of alchemical tools on the Inquisitor's desk with elegant nonchalance. A handful of servants clambered up the stairwell in pursuit. Vivienne need not ask what was wrong; the fluid clogging Ora's lungs spoke a thousand words. With a simple gesture, Vivienne beckoned a younger servant to her side. A dainty vial hung between two fingers.

"Draw a warm bath with this oil. _Warm, _dear, do not forget," the court enchanter instructed. The maid obeyed, departing with a curt bow. Another replaced her. "Put a kettle on the fire and fetch licorice root for tea." The process repeated. She soon approached Cassandra who stood at the foot of Ora's bed. "Lady Cassandra, darling, you may go now. I will see to her personally."

Frankly a bit overwhelmed, Cassandra merely nodded – not unlike the servant girls – before leaving.

Over the course of the next few hours, Vivienne instituted a quarantine for the Inquisitor – not because she thought she was contagious, but rather because she did not want her to be disturbed. The bath had reduced her fever and the tea loosened whatever lingered in her lungs, but until the enchanter could finish working on a poultice, uninterrupted rest would do the most for her. Vivienne could tell that the elf's body wished for nothing more than sleep, but her lungs were far too beleaguered to allow it for more than an hour at a time. Therefore, only she and a select few servants were to be permitted into Ora's quarters until she deemed it otherwise.

Far from worried, Vivienne was confident she would have the Inquisitor well in a week. Days passed and improvement was noted. Eventually, Vivienne conceded to allowing messengers admittance during certain hours of the day so that Ora may communicate with the others in Skyhold, attending to small matters, while also staying in bed. Vivienne of course was aware that the elf's downtime did not mean the Inquisition could cease to function. But that did not mean she would refrain from exercising her discretion, either.

"Put the quill down, dear, and close your eyes for a spell."

"Do try to swallow the draught, my dear. It does more for the fever than your outfit."

"Do not think I am unaware that you bring your tea with you to the chamber pot, darling. I will have another cup drawn up presently."

Though immensely thankful for Vivienne's help, Ora quickly grew impatient. Her fever had long disappeared but the cough stubbornly remained. Official Inquisition business only did so much for her, and after Vivienne made a point to criticize her wardrobe – again – Ora prayed to wake up healthy, or to at least find something else to distract her. Sera was apparently the answer to said prayer; the friend of Red Jenny sent her a message disguised as something important, and they had been participating in a sketch war of sorts since. She was in the midst of drawing sagging, hairy breasts on Sera's rendition of Corypheus when another messenger appeared at the top of the stairs. Hurriedly covering her artistic atrocity, Ora thanked him for the folded bundle of parchment, clearing her throat.

The very morning she could breathe unhindered, Ora sent word to Josephine, asking to arrange a meeting at the war table at everyone's earliest convenience. They would gather in two day's time. Vivienne gave her one last dose of her alchemical concoction, for good measure, and left as gracefully as she'd come. Ora tried to ask how she could thank the enchanter, but it was no use. No lady, especially the Iron Lady, was going to outwardly expect a show of gratitude for her work. The elf knew better than to try to argue her way around it with Vivienne. There was no changing her mind, and there never would be.

Despite her itching cabin fever, Ora decided to play it safe. Of her own volition, the Inquisitor spent an additional day resting. She even drank one last cup of detestable, heartbreaking licorice tea.

* * *

><p>"Good morning."<p>

He hadn't even noticed her there when he entered the war room, his nose buried so deep into his notes. Cradling a steaming cup of hot tea in both hands, the Inquisitor seemed amused by Cullen's distraction and subsequent shock. Her tired eyes smiled.

"Good morning," the commander recovered, resuming his trip towards the table. "You're quite early."

"Ah, yes, well… I've grown a bit restless these past few days."

Cullen set his board on the tabletop and turned to face her, hands resting on the pommel of his sword. "I can imagine," he sympathized. "Lady Vivienne had you under lock and key for some time."

"Yes," she replied, humor lining her voice, "I did not expect to be a prisoner twice in my life. Though I cannot seem to decide which occasion was more terrifying." That managed to extract a few honest chuckles from the ex-templar. Ora took a sip of her beverage. "What about you? Why are you so early?"

"I am always early, Inquisitor." Her expression compelled elaboration. "To get my thoughts in order."

"Oh, and I've ruined it."

"You haven't ruined it. N-Not at all."

Ora grinned, her eyes flickering from his face to the cold stone floor. "Is that the Crestwood report?"

"It is," Cullen responded with renewed energy, glad the silence that had befallen them was dispelled. His chest inflated as he took a deep breath. "And it is… impressive." He couldn't think of a better word to describe it. When he had entered the war room, he was going through it a second time because it had initially read like fiction. "I thought the dwarf might have written it at first."

"I wish he had." She jested, but ultimately, solemnity radiated from her. _It might have had a happy ending._ Memories of corpses, large and small, huddled in homes and in caves, faces warped by decay, or by fear? The Veil worn thin by the pain and despair that hung in the air as thickly as the humidity. Was the constant rain trying to wash it away?

Ora shook the thoughts from her head. She told herself it was pointless to dwell, but she did not have much control over that. She'd hoped the fever dreams would have gotten it out of her system. The drafty war room didn't help, the frigid air from the dilapidated hallway sneaking its way through the cracks much like the cool breath of Old Crestwood's caverns. She shivered. The elf did not want her short, introspective pause to seem odd, so she spoke up again, building on her previous comment. "Varric might have done the whole ordeal justice."

Cullen could sense the ghost of the mission haunting her, joining the others that inevitably floated about her head. It was part of the job, and in many respects a part of life, but that did not make it any easier to see. That didn't mean he wasn't a bit more… biased, in this case either. His eyes caught her shiver, and he almost offered her his coat, though he did not know if that would be considered polite or untoward. Of course it would have been considered courteous and thoughtful, but that vexing bias made him oftentimes hypersensitive in the most mundane of situations. Instead, more small talk filled in the space between then and when the other two advisors arrived in the war room.

"Are you sure you should be back to work so soon?" Leliana asked Ora'ana.

"Do not bother," Josephine injected, agitated, "I already tried."

The Herald cringed at Josie's sour words. "I appreciate the concern, I do. I am not doing anything taxing. Besides, the Inquisition cannot grind to a halt because of a cold.

"A_ cold?_ Ora, you could not—" Frustrated, the diplomat disregarded that and moved on. "You wanted this meeting, so let it begin. We should discuss the Western Approach."

The spymaster stepped in, a bit amused by Josephine's temper. "I have already sent scouts ahead based on the information given to us by Hawke and Alistair. Once a forward camp is established and we have a grasp on Warden activities in the area, we can decide what to do from there."

Ora's gaze traced the path from Skyhold all the way to their next destination. Even further than Val Royeaux, it would be the most she had ever traveled. And it would take a very, very long time to get there. "At least the trip won't be boring," she mused, trying to look on the bright side, "having Hawke and Alistair around make for few dull moments."

Leliana chuckled. "I cannot speak for Hawke, but yes, Alistair is quite good at banishing dull moments. From what he tells me, however, he may not have much left to offer."

The Inquisitor shrunk back in embarrassment. "He told you, did he?" The elf sighed despondently. "His stories were one of the few things keeping me going on our way from Crestwood," she admitted, adding in a soft, repentant tone, "I really should apologize. I must have seemed like a child."

"I would not worry, Ora. You would know if he did not like you, rest assured. Speaking of which," she went on in an unusual way, "he says he appreciates the peaches."

Cullen sent the spymaster and Inquisitor a bewildered glance. "Peaches?"

"You were able to get them, Josie?" Ora proclaimed excitedly, Cullen's inquiry going unnoticed.

Josephine exhaled. "Yes, it was not that difficult."

"And they were there waiting for him?" Eyes completely wide, lips clamped, Ora waited on bated breath for the Antivan's reply.

"What are they talking about?" the commander questioned the spymaster. She merely shrugged.

"Yes, Inquisitor," Josephine drolled mechanically. "Just as you requested."

The edges of her mouth spread from pointed ear to pointed ear. At last, Ora addressed Cullen's confusion. She spoke proudly and happily. "On our way from Crestwood, I asked Ser Alistair what it was like to be a Warden. He gave me a sarcastic response about getting fresh peaches every morning, rabbits, and something, I don't remember. So I asked lovely, amazing Josie to get peaches to put in his room because I felt badly about bothering him with stupid questions, and he just seemed sad all the time." Her joy could barely be contained. "I wish I could have seen his face."

Cullen stared. A dismayed hand covered Josephine's eyes. Leliana wore a puckered smile. That was one way to deal with Alistair's smart mouth. Ora's silly gesture was suddenly hilarious in a way only the spymaster could understand. Eventually, the elf's juvenile enthusiasm faded, leaving all three pairs of eyes on her in complete stillness. Her own darted from face to face frantically.

"I… I thought it would be… Is it not? Hm." Her cheeks burned. She took a sip of her cold tea. Across the way, Cullen's lips curved into a crooked smirk.

* * *

><p>They discussed the Western Approach at length. Events unfolding in the Exalted Plains came up as well, and based on the scouts' reports, they all concluded that something should be done to help stabilize the region. The Orlesian Civil War between Empress Celene and her cousin Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons had raged there, ravaging the countryside. With both sides worn down by fighting as peace talks commenced at the Winter Palace, the battlefields and Orlesian forces were easy prey; something suspicious stirred, and they could all identify the stench of Venatori involvement from Skyhold, the rumors of undead notwithstanding. Once news came in from the Approach, the Inquisitor would take a detour to the plains on her way west to show her face and offer assistance for a short time. Crestwood had, luckily or unluckily, depending on one's viewpoint, conditioned the Inquisitor and her team against the undead already, so they hoped her stay would be quick and the mission resolved relatively easily. Hawke and Alistair would ride ahead to the Western Approach. Hopefully, by the time the Inquisitor did arrive there, all would be prepared. Josephine, who had at that point lightened up a bit, flipped through her pile of documents looking for their next discussion.<p>

"Ah, yes, here is it. The letter from Lady Guinevere Volant, our ambassador to Wycome in the Free Marches." The mention of Wycome caught Ora and Cullen's attention quite rapidly. Josephine read it aloud.

_Ambassador Montilyet,_

_It has been my pleasure to meet Duke Antoine of Wycome and pay my respects on behalf of the Inquisition. The Duke is a most friendly man. Indeed, I dare say he thinks the best of everyone, and has _advisors_ from as far away as _Tevinter!

Cullen kneaded his brow.

_Duke Antoine assures me that he wishes the Inquisition well, and will offer us military support as soon as his city has recovered from a strange disease that has spread throughout most of the human population, though the elves in the Alienage are thus far unaffected. This illness may explain why bandits were able to operate so close to Wycome with impunity: all the nobles and most of the soldiers have been weakened._

_Any concerns I have raised, he say, can wait until then. The Duke's Tevinter advisor has indicated an _eagerness_ to make my acquaintance, and it is becoming increasingly _difficult_ to _resist_ such a tempting offer._

_Yours in haste,  
><em>_Lady Guinevere Volant_

The air buzzed with quiet contemplation.

"There were murmurs of some sort of plague in Wycome when we resupplied," Cullen revealed, an elbow in one hand while the other gripped his chin, "but nothing to this degree. We would have noticed if a majority of those in and near Wycome were affected."

Leliana's head shook back and forth. "Then it must have worsened only recently. That would render it no reason as to how and why the bandits were traipsing around within their borders." She exhaled. "No, something is amiss."

"That was evident the moment she mentioned a Tevinter advisor," the commander remarked bitterly.

Josephine contributed to the mounting list of questions. "What sort of disease affects only humans? Or are humans possibly being targeted?"

"Clan Lavellan still camps near Wycome." The diplomat's concerns went untouched as the urgency in which Cullen spoke garnered looks from his colleagues. He cleared his throat and leveled his tone. "If there is even the possibility of Venatori presence there, they may still be in danger. Not only this, but if the nobility and military alike are weakened, then the sanctuary offered by the duke stands hollow. Word should be sent to relocate."

Josephine opened her mouth to agree, but Leliana instantly and sharply dissented. "No, that would be unwise. It could be seen as suspicious, if what Volant implies is true. If the Venatori have infiltrated the duke's inner circle, then the Lavellan clan is likely being closely monitored. They would most certainly know who they are."

Cullen's features crunched in annoyance. "So they should not be warned at all?"

Leliana met his caustic tone with one of her own. "Not they, but she." The Orlesian addressed the Inquisitor. "You should pen a letter to your Keeper so she is at least aware of the possibility. We cannot risk exposure, so the fewer who know, the better."

They all turned their attention to Ora who thus far stood wordlessly, her eyes distant in thought, her forehead wrinkled with effort. When her gaze finally did enter back into reality, it settled peculiarly on Cullen. It took him a moment for him to realize she sought his input. His lips tightened into a line.

"Sending in forces to Wycome would likely be seen as a direct act of hostility," he explained somberly. "The Free Marches are volatile as it is. They would be up in arms. I'm afraid I don't have much to offer in this situation." Cullen hoped the look they shared conveyed his apology.

She said nothing, instead switching to the hooded spymaster. "Leliana, do you still have agents in the area from the last time?"

"Yes. They were investigating the bandits."

She bit the tip of her thumb. "What do you think?"

"This is no longer a matter of diplomacy. Josephine's diplomat believes the Tevinter advisor is Venatori. He must be eliminated."

"Then call off their investigation. Have them focus on helping Lady Guinevere and dealing with the advisor immediately, if possible."

"As you say, Inquisitor."

"Thank you." As Josephine finalized the details in her notes, Ora did her best to remove herself from the situation; the implication of her clan finding itself in harm's way yet again had no direct relevance to the issue of the Venatori advisor. What she had been thinking, Cullen – of all people – had articulated. Ora knew it shouldn't have been so shocking; Cullen had, after all, gone all the way to the Free Marches to help her clan himself. No wonder they came to mind. He'd invested a lot of time and effort into their protection. It must've been aggravating to realize that it might be all for nothing.

At least, that is what she told herself. The strange feeling in her chest, however, remained hopeful.

She remembered the first time she felt it.

_It had been the children's idea to do something special for the Inquisition soldiers before they left. She helped them brainstorm around the fire in the evenings. After the clan and the forces found themselves near Wycome, the little ones sprang to action. Some gathered twigs, others collected flowers. Necklaces were woven and notes were written. Sometimes they would work into the early morning hours with dying embers as their only light. No one stopped them. Parents often joined them, and she did on occasion as well._

_The afternoon before the Inquisition's departure, the children dispersed, all of their thank-you gifts nestled safely in baskets or gently in sacks. Every single soldier and scout received something. Ora held back tears as she watched from afar. That could have been lost. Men had tried to kill them, those beautiful little things scampering around with wide smiles and anxious eyes and red cheeks and big hearts. She could not even fathom it. She could not. What was important was that they had not succeeded, and she would do all in her power as Inquisitor to make sure no one ever would._

_This brought her thoughts back to the commander. Ora had a feeling Cullen would never tell her a way to thank him, so she decided to just do things until it felt right. With that in mind, she instructed the children to save him for last. She wanted to be there. Out of sight, hidden, Ora watched as tiny Iriel offered him the first of many gifts headed his way. The sweet girl practically shoveled squished blossoms into his hand, and the commander did not even flinch when she began to tuck them into the fur of his coat collar. A hand flew to Ora's mouth, concealing the smile no one else could see, giggling. How intimidating and commanding he would look now with a small meadow around his neck._

_"Ma serannas," she heard him say, and she did a double take. "They are very nice." Iriel smiled bashfully. The rest of the children neared one by one._

_The next morning, even as Cullen led the Inquisition forces back to the coast, those flowers were still there._

_It could simply be that he forgot, or that he overlooked a couple when haphazardly brushing them off. But that became less likely as the days went on and they remained. It wasn't until they boarded their ship back to Ferelden that the blossoms all finally disappeared, the gusty winds off the Waking Sea ripping them away. After that, fireflies seemed to take up residence in her stomach and blaze to life whenever he looked her way._

* * *

><p>Cullen climbed the many spiraling steps to Leliana's aviary. Heading to the top of the tower himself instead of the usual courier gave him an excuse to leave the office and be alone. He could clear his head. The past couple of days had been filled with preparations for the Inquisition forces already stationed in the area to scout the lands around Crestwood for its missing mayor. A rather straightforward assignment with tricky implications. The mayor's actions in the report were enough of a bombshell, but the more he worked on it, the more the situation bothered him. The man did what he thought he had to do in order to protect the town. Normally that would have been enough for Cullen. But his own family had fled their homes during the Fifth Blight; if they had decided to head north instead of settling in South Reach, the Inquisitor might have been gathering their corpses at the bottom of that lake.<p>

Of course, that was neither here nor there. He could not pass judgment based on what could have been. But should his feelings really be different because the incident did not affect him directly? Was it right for him to be opposed to the mayor's choices in his imagined alternate reality but not in this one? Do the ends justify the means?

No, they did not. In this case, however, neither position made wrapping his mind around it any simpler. Sadly, these were not the thoughts he sought to evade.

He kept thinking about Wycome.

_The children of Clan Lavellan, some nervous but all bursting with vigor and enthusiasm, spread throughout the camp, each with a basket or bag in their arms. They all had a different gift to offer, handing them out – sometimes shyly – to every Inquisition soldier. Recipients accepted them confusedly, awkwardly, gratefully, amusedly. Cullen watched them zig and zag, himself embodying all four emotions when a child eventually made her way to him. She was quite small, no more than four years of age, with a round belly and dimpled fingers. She stared unblinkingly for a moment or two at the commander before finally nearing. Rummaging through her woven sack, the elven child produced a handful of assorted blossoms._

_It was in his nature to decline, but how could he then? Kneeling, the commander put on a soft, friendly smile – one he hadn't worn in a while._

_"Are those for me?"_

_The little one stopped, glanced down to the flowers clenched in her tiny grasp, looked back up and nodded. Cullen stretched out an open palm. She deposited them._

_"Wait!" she squeaked, reaching into the bag again. Cullen had never heard a voice so small. Out came another fistful of flowers, once more put into his hand. "Wait!" He swallowed a chuckle. Although she delved into the sack for more blossoms, she did not put them into his hand. Instead, she tentatively got closers and began tucking them into the fur of his coat._

_When she finished, stepping back to study her handiwork, the commander glimpsed to his shoulders to do the same._

_"Ma serannas." He hoped he'd said that correctly. "They are very nice."_

_At the sound of the elven phrase escaping his mouth, the girl's face lit up, her cheeks turning pink. Soon, the remaining children found their way to him, giving him yet more gifts. They thanked him for helping them and for saving them from the bandits. A boy, a bit older than the first little girl, focused on Cullen with his face twisted in contemplation._

_"Are you a werewolf?"_

_A gasp sounded from behind the commander. Ora'ana jogged up to them, obviously attempting to mask her amusement at the boy's rude question. In her hair were braided small white flowers. "Melin! You cannot just ask those things! And I told you he wasn't!" Cullen, his hands and arms full of handmade trinkets, laughed. Ora sent him a sympathetic look. "Your helm, they saw you ride down and… thought you were a werewolf or Fen'Harel, of all things," she explained, flustered, turning to the children, chastising, "even though they clearly saw him remove it!"_

_"Vellara told me to ask!" The Inquisitor flung a scathing glare to the older elf girl._

_"No I didn't!"_

_Cullen couldn't help grinning. "Forgive me, Inquisitor. The helm is meant to frighten enemies, not small children."_

The crows were unusually quiet. Most of them stood primping their feathers. Cullen handed off his orders to the birdmaster and told him their destination. The man responded with nothing more than a curt bow before swiveling on his heels and walking away.

_About halfway across the Waking Sea, the Inquisitor approached him on deck. His long bouts of staring at the horizon worried her, apparently. She didn't get seasick; according to her, riding in the Dalish landships her whole life must have made her immune. Reasonable logic._

_"What is Fen'Harel? If you don't mind me asking." The question came to him quite randomly._

_Ora rolled her eyes and smiled as she recollected Melin's audacity. "Do you recall seeing any stone statues around our camp? My clan's camp, I mean. That is Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf. He is set at the outskirts of our campsites to fend off evil spirits, and to remind us to be wary." She continued with the same humored mortification. "Some of the children saw you in your armor and thought Fen'Harel had come to scare off the bandits."_

_The commander cocked a brow. "I am… flattered, though they must have been gravely disappointed when they learned the truth."_

_"Disappointed? No. Relieved, perhaps. The Dread Wolf hunts alone, and Fen'Harel does not offer his aid without a price."_

Cullen scoffed at the memory. He may as well have been sent by their wolf god, dispatching the bandits and then putting them within a stone's throw of the Venatori. And those who lost their lives lost them for nothing. Andraste preserve him.

"Everything well, Commander?" He'd been so distracted, he didn't even realize he'd descended into the library a floor below. Dorian spied him from his lush chair in a small, book-laden alcove. As always, his voice hummed with mischief. "You seem troubled."

"Pavus," he replied in gruff acknowledgment, intentionally ignoring the Tevinter's inquiry. He began to walk away but stopped himself mid-stride. "That… chessboard you mentioned…"

Perhaps a game of chess could reinvigorate the waning confidence in his tactical prowess. Maker knew it failed in Wycome.

* * *

><p>The last of the pawns made it into the drawstring pouch with a marbly clunk. The game ended in Cullen's victory, though not just against the Tevinter mage. The Inquisitor had long taken Dorian's place across from the commander. The air surrounding them had noticeably changed, though neither of them would acknowledge it. They were both far too preoccupied wrangling their fluttering hearts or suppressing stupid grins. To be quite honest, Ora's suggestion to 'spend more time together' had been rather innocent in nature; however, Cullen's reaction made it anything but. It was just enough to challenge the idea that those furtive glances weren't a trick of her mind, or that those stammers weren't simply a clumsy tongue. Did she not want them to be? The question settled like hot oil in her belly.<p>

Uncertainty hounded Cullen still, however. Unable to discern whether the Inquisitor's suggestion implied something more or if it was just Ora being her usual friendly self, the commander nevertheless battled blush from his cheeks and tried to bludgeon the surging hope threatening to explode from his rib cage into submission. Resources spread thin, he only managed to achieve half of both goals. He nearly jumped when she spoke.

"I will take the board back to Dorian." She stood and swept the game board under her arm. "So you may get back to your duties." He got to his feet as well, handing her the pouch of pieces.

"Thank you. I'm sure I have kept you from important matters as well."

Ora shook her head negatively. "Not particularly. I came to here merely to check on some plants when I heard you two talking."

"I see. You… tend the garden, then?"

"No, just a few pots of my own. It's all quite new to me," she admitted affably. "My clan did not put much stock in agriculture, I'm afraid. I worry for them."

Cullen's body bristled with alarm. "For whom?"

"The plants," she elaborated, a bit embarrassed. "Is that strange?"

Relief washed over him albeit briefly; the escape and validation he sought through the chess game dwindled as his earlier concerns crept back to the forefront of his mind. "No, no. Not at all, Inquisitor."

"Is that the official answer?" she teased.

He laughed at how their current conversation echoed another. Cullen played along. "I suppose. But, again, it is the truth." His merriment hastily dimmed, and a thick silence joined them like an old friend. Picking up on it, Ora's eyes strayed from him to the grass. Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. "Forgive me," he finally said, earning her puzzlement. He sighed. "Inquisitor, about Wycome…"

"What about it?" Her words emerged delicately in hopes that they might not betray both her sadness and surprise at his mentioning of it.

Jaw clenched, Cullen swallowed his discomfort. "I want to… apologize. I cannot help feeling that my actions contributed to your clan's…" _Imminent endangerment? Delivery to the Venatori?_ "… continued troubles."

She softened in a way he'd never seen her do before. Her voice came out wispy, nearly exasperated. "Yes, of course they did. And I thank the Creators every day for it." That was not the response Cullen expected. Nor was he prepared to handle the way she looked at him. Her eyes were wide, pleading, her brow upturned with both concern and disbelief. "Cullen, the dead do not have troubles. They are alive because of you." Ora was pained that he might feel any semblance of guilt or fault. The elf steadied her demeanor. "My clan camps safely outside the city, and I have already sent word to Keeper Deshanna. With Leliana's agents still in the area, we need only wait for them to receive their orders. To be honest, I fear more for the ill citizens of Wycome."

The Inquisitor's change in tone immediately set Cullen at ease. It was back to business. "Yes, of course." Though no traces of distress appeared on either of their countenances and the commander seemed convinced, a weird tension still buzzed between them nonetheless. One end of Ora's mouth curled into her cheek.

"If it would make you feel better, we could ask the tea leaves." That did the trick. Cullen's head dipped down, eyes closed and mouth fighting a grin. The air felt lighter again. There was no hiding the smirk when his gaze climbed its way back to her.

* * *

><p>Dorian sifted through various tomes beside the Inquisitor, scanning the shelves of bookcases for more on the Western Approach. Flora, fauna, history… the elf wanted anything that could remotely make their lives easier while there. Despite the reading inevitably being on the stale side, the Tevinter mage obliged to aid her regardless. He'd come to very much enjoy Ora's company. He even considered her a good friend. But that did not make her the least bit safer from his antics. He'd actually debated whether or not to bring it up, but in the end, Dorian came to terms with the fact that he was a slave – no, a willing servant – to that saucy minx known as gossip. "Have a thing for strapping young templars, I see."<p>

Ora sent him a sideways glare. She stood on her tiptoes at the bookshelf next to him. "What's this about?"

"Oh, nothing," he replied glibly. "Just something I find rather adorable about you." He almost didn't say it, but he couldn't help himself. "Especially that 'spend more time together' bit. Brilliant, really."

At that, the color drained from Ora'ana's face. "How did you—no. I refuse to encourage you."

Dorian's mouth assumed its typical moustached sneer. "Oh, come now! It's nothing to be ashamed of! The commander usually has a steady expression of doom and gloom, but not when it comes to you." Ora'ana rolled her eyes and staunchly remained silent. "Well, it's still pretty gloomy, but in a romantically hopeless sort of way, I suppose. You should be proud! Another impossible thing made possible by Her Worship, the Inquisitor."

"You're just as bad as Varric," she grumbled, trying to drop the subject by searching the books again.

"Dear, I am far, far worse." The lowest notes of his voice rumbled with impishness.

Her irritation overrode her original plan to deprive him of fuel. Her tone dipped down to a harsh, raspy whisper. "How do you even know that?"

Dorian did not return to courtesy, speaking just as loudly and unabashedly as he did before. "Now, before you get upset," he began unwisely, the elf's large eyes narrowing severely, "you should be _flattered_ I hid in a _shrub_ of all things." It was true. After Dorian had surrendered his chessboard to the commander and the Inquisitor, he didn't exactly leave.

Her jaw dropped. "You were _eavesdropping?"_ She turned her head back to the bookshelf, going on absently. "You've been hanging around Bull too long. He converted you, didn't he? You're Ben-Hassrath now, too. Why did I ever think I could trust a qunari and a Tevinter, of all people? This isn't even your fault. It's mine."

Dorian could tell she was spiraling and decided to put a stop to it. He rested his hands on her shoulder, staring her squarely in the face with the utmost seriousness. "Ora, darling, I fought off that ghastly _Mother Giselle_ just to remain hidden. This is no offense. This is a major compliment."

Mouth gaping, eyes searching, Ora mulled his ridiculous statement over for a moment. Her revelation bordered on earth-shattering. "Why do I believe you?"

* * *

><p>Though Ora'ana remained in Skyhold for a whole month before word from the Western Approach came about, she still found her time mercilessly eaten away by paperwork and shows of hospitality. Josephine took advantage of the temporary lull to bolster their diplomatic ties with visits from various nobles and influential people. The Antivan had long been coordinating Skyhold's repairs and renovations for precisely those occasions. Between sending scouts to the Western Approach, the Exalted Plains, Wycome, and now on an arduous search for the Hero of Ferelden, the spymaster found her hands full as well. The commander happened to be decidedly less busy than his colleagues; the mayor of Crestwood had been found and was being transported to Skyhold at that very moment. Extra precaution needed to be taken. Word of the mayor's actions spread like wildfire, and his men had already fended off one vigilante's attempt on the man's life while in their custody. Thus, it would take a bit longer for him to arrive.<p>

Beyond that and the run-of-the-mill patrols and bandit control, Inquisition forces went to march through the town of Verchiel at the behest of the Friends of Red Jenny, for whatever reason (Cullen stopped trying to apply logic to Sera and the Inquisitor's willingness to partake in her shenanigans at this point). Cullen was also overseeing the construction of practice grounds within Skyhold – a development the Inquisitor had been particularly excited to reveal to him – and, as always, enduring the ever-worsening bouts of lyrium withdrawal. Bad days were becoming more frequent; when symptoms harangued him during training, it was hard for his men to ignore the deep purple shadows beneath his eyes, the sickly pallor of his already pale skin, and his frequent excusals to empty the contents of his stomach. And while he was, by all means, eager for this new training area, he feared his chronic fatigue would prevent him from participating as he often did. No one could think to command the respect from those serving him without proving his own worth and capabilities; sparring with his men from time to time kept his muscles honed and senses sharp. It also reminded them why he was the one in charge.

Good days were typically made better by the Inquisitor; though her visits had been fairly commonplace even before the chess match, they became gradually more frequent during the weeks after. Cullen attributed it mostly to her desire to escape – one could only take so much politicking and bureaucracy. Since the main hall had been completely repaired and furnished, Lady Josephine had wasted no time putting it to use, dragging the Inquisitor along with her. Every few days, there was someone new to entertain as the ball at Halamshiral drew ever closer. The commander could not honestly see himself in the Inquisitor's place without losing his mind.

As… flattering as supposedly being an escape for her was, he wished he could offer more. However, he was indelibly chained to his duties. The brief walks, the cups of tea, and the conversations weren't much compared to say, discussing literature with Dorian (or Cassandra, he learned, much to his amusement – though he swore never to mention it); causing harmless trouble with Sera; getting uncharacteristically drunk with Bull and the Chargers; hanging around Varric and Hawke; prodding more fantastic tales out of Ser Alistair… he could've gone on.

Needless to say, Ora was just as much an escape for him as he may have been to her. He liked simply listening to her talk about things, and she seemed happy enough to share them. And while that was true, the relatively one-sidedness of it all made Ora uncomfortable as time wore on. She wondered if she was talking too much and if Cullen was actually enjoying himself. He did not look outwardly bored or bothered, and whenever she asked him, she found it hard to trust his dismissals. Who was going to tell someone, let alone the Herald and the Inquisitor, that she was bothering or boring them?

Ora knew Cullen was no stranger to speaking his mind. She only need to think back to his verbal back-and-forths with Grand Chancellor Roderick back in Haven. But, somewhere, that logic was lost among shadows of doubt and insecurity. So, as steadily as her visits had increased they also tapered slightly – not enough for alarm but just enough to catch the commander's attention.

He wanted to think it was on account of the preparations to disembark to the Exalted Plains in two weeks. He wouldn't ask. The Inquisitor's time was hers to do with as she pleased, and it was hardly his business to ask why she wasn't devoting it to him as much as she had in the very recent past. Not only that, but the Inquisition also came before all of them. If achieving their goals meant that she would never stroll into his office with a tray of tea and snacks again, well, that would be something he would just have to accept. Melodramatics aside, Cullen did fairly well until six whole days passed without seeing her outside of the war room or from a distance. That was just abnormal. Was she ill again? Angry? It worried him, so he did what any adult would do: he indirectly asked everyone else about Ora instead of going to her himself.

He went to Josephine first under the assumption that the diplomat had probably seen the most of the Inquisitor these past few weeks. Nothing noteworthy. Varric was nowhere to be found. He attempted to approach Leliana in the rookery, but Baron Plucky caught sight of him and went berserk. Fortunately for him, the spymaster had to only coo for the crazed raven to eagerly retreat to her arm, effectively sparing his life – or, at least, his eyeballs. He didn't even bother to ask her after that. On his way down the tower, Cullen almost stopped to question Dorian, but he convinced himself he wasn't _that_ desperate. Lady Vivienne confirmed that Ora's health was, as far as she knew, holding up.

Finally, Cassandra provided him with useful information. The Seeker mentioned something about the Inquisitor heading down to the new training grounds with Iron Bull and a few others. Various patrolmen corroborated the claim. He debated whether or not to go. If anything, he could say he was there to inspect the finished product, though he already had (and with the Inquisitor, no less). His legs carried him to the grounds nevertheless as his mind scrambled to think of a believable excuse, hoping he'd have one by the time he got there.

He'd come up with one or two, but he wouldn't need them. As soon as the grounds came into view, he watched the Inquisitor's lithe figure fly into the air and back down again. Each launch was accompanied by a guttural roar from the Iron Bull and a series of obnoxious giggles that unmistakably belonged to Sera. As he got closer, he noticed Varric there as well, which explained his absence from the main hall, as well as Cole – no doubt the dwarf's tag-along, as he often was. They were set quite a distance from the qunari and Inquisitor. The unsettling spirit boy noted Cullen's presence first, eerily without even turning around or actually seeing him. At this, Varric glanced over his shoulder and Sera cut her titters abruptly short. Her nose crinkled at Cole and scooted away.

"Curly! You're just in time!"

His amber eyes followed Ora each time Bull threw her into the air. "What in Andraste's name is going on?"

"Your lady Inquisitits is mad, yeah?" Sera obliged to answer, shaking her head. "I wouldn't do it, now she is."

"Do what?"

_"Mayhem,"_ the choppy-haired elf replied in a deep voice, mockingly.

Varric stepped in. "Tiny here wanted to vault Sera behind enemy lines for a flank surprise attack. Said I was too 'dense.'"

"That's because it's daft, innit?"

"I'm assuming she has some sort of plan." Varric scratched his stubbly chin, his arms crossed.

"She does," Cole chimed in. The three others shot him a quick glance.

It was then that Cullen noticed the practice dummies set a few meters from Bull and Ora. "Maker's breath, he intends to—"

Before anymore could be said, the qunari shouted. "All right, Boss, this is it!" Both of her feet nestled in his palm as she balanced tenuously, knees bent, Bull got a running start, cocked back his elbow, and flung the Inquisitor with all of his strength. The elf soared into the air above the dummies, flailing a bit at first. As soon as she reached the peak of her ascent, however, Ora extended her arm, open palm pointed down at the mannequins. A split second after the gesture, the ground beneath the targets exploded, sending both the tattered remnants of the inanimate victims as well as the elf soaring from the aftershock.

Everyone else braced against the shrapnel. Sera let out a string of obscenities as she did so, splinters and rags jetting past them. Cullen lowered his arm just in time to see the Inquisitor near the earth with dangerous momentum. Gaining her bearings, Ora pointed the head of her staff to the dirt. A small fireball bloomed and stunted her fall, allowing her to land much more gently, leaving a generous gap between her and ground zero. After the shock wore off, she let out a victorious whoop. As Sera skulked away, muttering about 'magic shite,' Iron Bull admired the destruction. She jogged giddily back to his hunkering figure.

"Well? What did you think?" Out of breath and excited, Ora combed a lock of hair behind a long ear and gazed up to Bull expectantly.

"Not what I had in mind," he started, "but it works." He'd wanted mayhem, but if that had been in a real battle, the enemies would have been immolated before any actual mayhem could ensue.

The Inquisitor sensed his reservations. "Was it too much? It was too much, wasn't it?" Her body suddenly stiffened in revelation. "I have an idea. Here, let us gather more dummies and—"

Varric arrived at their sides. The dwarf was laughing heartily. "Don't tell Hawke, but I may be changing my bet!"

That left Cullen and Cole on the sidelines and, effectively, out of earshot. The commander regarded the diverse grouping before him. The thrilling feat replayed continuously in his head. Even without lyrium, his body could still sense the magic. It positively engulfed the Inquisitor, coating her flesh like a sparkling dust, entwining her limbs and swirling at her feet like fallen leaves caught in a crossbreeze. It had always been there, but it hadn't been until she called that terrifyingly breathtaking power from the Fade that it made her radiant. The magical residue still tasted like metal in his mouth, always made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, but usually out of stress. These stirrings, however, were hardly as pure. Shamefully making sense of them rendered Cullen temporarily unaware of the boy with the wide-brimmed hat still hovering beside him. If he'd remembered Cole was there, he may have decided to leave quicker than he already had. Cole spoke the second before Cullen took his first step away.

"Working, waiting, she wonders if and wishes when." Cullen whipped his attention to Cole, taken aback. Stun delayed a verbal reaction. "Worry whispers, tells her he is tired of tea, loose leaves leaving loose leads."

The commander knew little about Cole's unique… ability, but he knew enough that its implications were not comforting. He could delve into the most private portions of a person's memory at any time – a dangerous and immeasurable invasion of privacy. But as soon as he mentioned tea leaves, Cullen immediately knew whose mind Cole had infiltrated. He should have been angry. Instead, his own mind scrambled to decipher it.

The sounds of nearing footsteps tore his gaze from Cole for a split second; by the time it returned, Cole had disappeared along with Cullen's memory of him being there at all. Confusion compounding, the commander shook his head as if that might rid him of it. Varric and Bull chatted between themselves as all three made their way back towards Skyhold's main grounds. Ora sent Cullen a small smile and wave but continued to follow them.

"I-If I may have a word, Inquisitor," he called, stuttering like a fool. Ora bid the others to go on without her. She jogged up to him.

"Something you need, Commander?"

He hadn't thought this far. Panic set in, and he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Tea." Andraste preserve him.

The elf's head tilted in an oddly charming, perplexed manner. _"You_ need _tea?"_

"Forgive me." He cleared his throat. "Another headache, I'm afraid."

"Oh." Ora blinked. "I thought you didn't—"

"If you are busy, I understand," he interrupted. "I figured you might be, with as much as I have seen you these past few days." Well, he hadn't intended for that to come out. Lovely.

Of course, she hadn't been busier necessarily, so now Ora wrestled with anxiety. She couldn't just say: _I'm not busy; I was just waiting on you._ "Oh, yes, well, you know how things are. It's a miracle I escaped Josie's clutches today when I did. But I am free now. Do you want me to—"

"Yes. I mean, do I want you to what?" Maker's breath, he was actually starting to sweat a little. All the times she came to him, Cullen could hold himself together moderately well. But now with the roles switched, the man realized just how at a loss he was. He may as well be an adolescent again, unbecoming feelings notwithstanding. Maybe he could just unsheath his sword and re-sheath it in his gut. Yes. That sounded ideal.

Holding back her smile morphed into quite the ordeal for the Herald. "Do you want me to make some for you now?"

"If it is not too much trouble, Inquisitor." He finally managed to speak a sentence without his voice wavering slightly.

"It is never too much trouble," she reassured him. "All you need to do is ask."

Cole peered from a distance, glad to know he'd helped.


	4. Restore Order in Wycome (pt 1)

_Every morning, the commander and his lieutenants gathered to briefly discuss the day's plans. Each lieutenant oversaw at least one regiment of soldiers, and they typically exercised a good deal of freedom in their task. Cullen always had the final say, though he rarely vetoed a lieutenant's decision. Respect ran both ways between the commander and his officers; they knew he was strict, but they also knew he was not unreasonable. And the trust he placed in them to do their duties without much intrusion left room for confidence and skill to grow. The short-term risks bloomed eventually into long-term success, and the commander knew – if this pattern persisted – that if something were to happen to him, the Inquisition forces would continue to function smoothly until another was appointed to take his place._

_Some of this the commander borrowed from his time as a templar; the Order's division of power and system of respect was what allowed him to step in after Meredith's downfall. What he would not take from the Order was their lack of a centralized guidance and moral compass. The Chantry – as difficult as it was to admit – had failed. The templars were allowed to function as they pleased in each city and in each Circle, leaving room for gross abuse and misconduct. He would not allow that to happen within the Inquisition._

_As second-in-command, Rylen watched the forces evolve under Cullen's leadership. He had known him since Kirkwall, and to see both the progress of the man and the mission side-by-side left little question as to why Cullen garnered the amount of esteem he did. On top of everything else, the commander harbored an impressive intelligence of not just one but many things. Show him a new sword technique and he could not only replicate it but also apply it flawlessly the next day. His mind and body shared the same amount of endurance. Many younger, taller, or stronger recruits made the mistake of challenging him, and every single one ended up bruised and humiliated. It wasn't until their commander bested the Iron Bull in hand-to-hand combat that they learned provoking Cullen was probably an extremely terrible idea. And that was just friendly sparring._

_Another standard morning meeting came to a close. "Captain Rylen, stay behind, if you would. The rest of you, dismissed." The captain watched his other colleagues leave the commander's office and shut the door behind them. _

_Rylen moved from the edge of the room to squarely before Cullen's desk. "Ser?"_

"_What do you know of the Western Approach?"_

_Rylen searched his thoughts briefly. "Not much, to be honest. I've heard it's a harsh place, and hosted a Blight at some point."_

_The commander nodded as Rylen spoke. "You will be receiving a formal report within the week, but yes; it is a desert wasteland affected mostly by the Second Blight. It is also the location of the Inquisition's next major project. And I want you there." Another person may have been dismayed by this news; Rylen, however, was not bothered. His accepting silence signaled the commander to go on. "It is going to take a great deal of coordination to make this work. The trip itself is lengthy, and the conditions are unlike what our forces have endured before. Sister Leliana's scouts are already establishing small outposts, and I have submitted requisitions with the quartermaster for supplies as well as armor better suited for such a climate." Cullen rose from his chair and pushed a book forward. Rylen took it. "This book contains ample information on the Western Approach that you will find useful."_

"_Thank you, ser." The Marcher flipped through the pages. "I will look over it and pass important information to the scribes to distribute amongst my men."_

_A small grin tugged at one end of Cullen's mouth. "A man of my own mind. Best to prepare them as much as is possible. Your forces and the Inquisitor will be departing together when the times comes. Her Worship has business in the Exalted Plains, so you will part ways when you make port in Val Royeaux. From there, you will continue west with our contacts and establish a foothold in the Approach."_

_The captain nodded, closing the book. "A solid plan. Might I inquire as to our goal in the Approach, ser?"_

_Only a split-second of hesitation filled the space between question and answer. "Our contacts have reason to believe the missing Grey Wardens are there, and that they are somehow in-league with Corypheus. We do not know why."_

"_Shit."_

_There was a reason why Rylen could get away with such vulgar language with commander. The captain was about the closest thing Cullen had to a 'friend,' especially out of the Free Marches. Rylen got to know and respect the commander when he was still the Knight-Captain trying to keep things from falling apart in Kirkwall. And Cullen came to appreciate Rylen's strength and support when Starkhaven sent its aid, which in turn earned Rylen one of Cullen's very first invitations to what would become the Inquisition._

_The commander's brow lifted in understanding as he returned to his seat. "Quite. As I mentioned, I will have that report to you as soon as possible, but I felt it necessary to give you ample warning. This will likely be the Inquisition's most complex and most perilous objective to date."_

"_I appreciate it, ser. You need not worry. My men and I will have everything ready upon Her Worship's arrival, I guarantee it."_

"_I am not worried. I have full and utter faith in your abilities."_

_Their unique relationship is what also allowed Rylen to say the following without fear of reprimand. "Not about me, ser." An innocent tease with a waggle of eyebrows set their conversation on vastly different course._

_A hard pause followed. Cullen exhaled through his nose. "What are they saying?"_

_Despite their friendship, the maned man's acknowledgement of the subject left Rylen bewildered. "Just that you fancy her, is all. You know how it is."_

_The expression that swept over Cullen's features was one Rylen was not unfamiliar with, but it might as well have been as rare as a high dragon. A look of soft dejection, the commander's eyes strayed to the papers on his desk. His voice took on similar facets. "Is it that obvious?"_

_Shocked at the easy confession, Rylen did his best to hide it. "Permission to speak freely, ser?"_

"_Of course."_

"_Besides the blushing and stuttering?"_

_Cullen's amber eyes dragged themselves up to Rylen's and met them with resentment – but not for the captain. He could not help the prickling of color inevitably shading his face. "Yes."_

"_Well, from what I've heard 'round the barracks, they've noticed you to be less cranky whenever she is around. They know they can get away with more if she comes by." A sound of displeased comprehension hummed in the commander's throat. He did not expect the captain to continue. "Some of the women say they could tell right after Haven." This resulted in a forlorn groan. Rylen chuckled. "A little romance is good for morale. Don't stress so much."_

_Cullen sent the captain an unenthused glare. "There is no 'romance,' Rylen. I'm the commander and she is the Inquisitor, for Andraste's sake. It would be inappropriate and unprofessional."_

"_Best save those bits for the bedroom, then." Cullen shot him a betrayed and dark look but could not stave off the deepening color of his cheeks. Clearing his throat, Rylen wiped the smirk from his lips. He at least thought it was clever. "This isn't the Order, you know."_

"_I am aware," he answered, tone tinged with mild irritation._

"_So what is the problem? She fancies you too, you know."_

_Rylen found it entertaining. The commander of the Inquisition: as fierce and brave as a bear in battle, and as skittish as a fennec when it came to women. The captain gave him a little leeway, though; this wasn't just any woman. "She—what? No, no, that's… that's not the point, if it even were true. There was a reason fraternization was disallowed. I never disagreed with it. A… relationship would generate a conflict of interest."_

_He shrugged. "Then don't give them a reason." The subsequent stillness led Rylen to believe that Cullen had seen his point, but the lowering of the commander's brow and the hardening of his eyes suggested otherwise._

_Cullen's gloved hands curled into fists on the desktop. "And it's… it's getting worse."_

_Rylen needed no elaboration. The atmosphere suddenly leadened. "Have you spoken to her about it?"_

"_Of course I have."_

"_What did she say?"_

"_It doesn't matter what she said." The words were tight and sharp. Taking a deep breath, Cullen dispelled most of the bite. "What matters is that I am… unstable. I could go mad tomorrow. I could die the day after that. Some days I can barely move, barely think. That is not something I would burden anyone with… least of all her. She is… too important. The Inquisition is too important."_

"_You know, the commander is also an… important person. Sometimes I think you forget. No one would expect a commander to go through something like that alone." The very idea of quitting lyrium chilled Rylen to the bone. He saw what it did to Cullen. He was not so sure he could handle it as well._

_The blond Fereldan waved the sentiment away. "I'm not alone. I am aware of the support shown me and am immensely grateful for it."_

"_You know that's not what I mean."_

"_Do I?" Cullen sent his captain a long stare. "The fate of Thedas rests on her shoulders. I do not wish to add to the load."_

"_Then help her carry it."_

_Rylen's blunt, cool replies grated enormously on Cullen's nerves. How could he possibly think it was that simple? His next words came out as a growl. "What in Andraste's name do you think I'm trying to do? What do you think everyone in the Inquisition is trying to do?"_

_Rylen did not even flinch. "Ser, with all due respect, I did not come here to argue with my superior about his love life, or lack thereof."_

"_As a friend, then."_

"_I would be less inclined to argue with a friend, ser."_

"_Then… then there will be no arguing. I just… Maker's breath. I'm just asking for advice. Begging, really." This was likely the first time Rylen had ever seen Cullen defeated. _

"_I'm not really one to give it. I left the Order not long after you did."_

"_I'm not talking about romantic advice, Rylen."_

"_What do you want me to tell you? I've already told you what I think, but it is something you obviously didn't want to hear." Both ex-templars found themselves a bit surprised at Rylen's outburst. But the captain grew tired of the commander's martyr-like attitude towards the whole situation. He would not give him the satisfaction. "Is there anything else you need, Commander?"_

_Cullen seemed to pick up on it. "No. Thank you, Captain. Dismissed." _

* * *

><p>His armor feels heavier, hotter, hanging off his harried shoulders like hands hoping to pull him into the dirt. Light and sound sharply sink into his head. He wants to hide in the dark and pray it goes away. But he can't. Too much to do, but the doing makes him dizzy. His ears are ringing with the blue bottle's singing; every note he ignores ignites the itch in his skin and it begins to weep.<p>

Just a few hours more he pleads, pretending the sounds of sword striking shield do not shoot up his spine, spiraling through his skull and stabbing his eyes. But the blue bottle bellows its ballad. It is so loud. I shall endure. I must endure.

Shouting at soldiers, always angry, no, that is not right. Hold it in your hand like this. Steady your shield like so. He is trying to help them but he cannot help the hurt. The blood begins to flow from his nose in two steady streams. He doesn't notice, but they do. When he tastes it, touches and tests, then he knows.

Leaving the lieutenant to lead, he plods a private path to the only place he feels safe. But there is where the lyrium lullaby lingers. Piece by piece, he peels the plates from his person. He tears out drawers, papers fly. Shaking, spinning, he stumbles and sits against the stone.

I find the case that croons for its commander. I hold it out to him. I want to help. But he does not trust me. The hidden hurt tells him not to.

"What are you doing?"

"I want to help."

"Put that away."

I do not understand. It will stop the hurting. "But it will help."

"No."

I do not understand. His body burns for the blue bottle. His feelings feel… wrong. "If helping hurts… does hurting help?"

* * *

><p>"Water helps." Cullen's eyes drifted to the opposite corner of the room where a pitcher sat on a table. They watched the strange, unnatural boy straighten his legs and saunter in that direction. A sigh escaped his lungs when Cole set the lyrium kit aside and poured the liquid into an adjoining tin cup. The commander received it with tremulous hands, and he barely managed to get it to his lips without spilling most of it on his chest and legs. It tasted like metal. He could not tell if that was a result of the blood or the cup.<p>

"It didn't help." The demon boy actually looked concerned. "The thirst still thrives, thorns in the throat. The blue burns them away, but they grow back bigger than before. Without water they might wither. Or you will. You don't know."

He did not enjoy understanding Cole's bizarre ramblings. "Invading my mind certainly does not help, either."

The spirit's cheeks appeared even more gaunt and the circles beneath his eyes even deeper when shadowed by the great rim of his hat. Cullen wagered they probably looked quite similar at that moment. "That is where I find the hurt. I feel it, find it, free it. But you do not think it is wrong. You think I am wrong."

Cullen had no chance to respond. The door across the room burst open, revealing Seeker Cassandra and a few others. Two Cullen recognized as some of the soldiers he'd been training earlier. At the sight of the haggard Cullen, backed against the wall on the floor, collar of his shirt browning with blood, Cassandra's accusative glare landed on Cole. "Get away from him, demon!"

After just a single step forward, the Seeker found herself stopped by a trembling palm raised in her direction. "It is alright, Lady Cassandra. He is… helping." The commander raised his cup of water to prove it.

Cassandra scoffed, not necessarily out of displeasure but mostly out of disbelief. "If… If you say so."

"But I didn't help."

"Then step aside for those who can." The Nevarran warrior marched forward and practically pushed through Cole to Cullen, helping him to his feet. His legs were too weak to carry him to his chair on their own, so she became his crutch. Setting him down, she turned her attention back to the others who had followed her. "You may go." The soldiers' nodded dutifully and did so. The healer Cassandra summoned made his way to the desk and removed a bottle from the bag at his hip. He popped the cork.

"Drink this. It should take the edge off."

Cullen painstakingly wrapped his bloodied fingers around the flask, and with even more concentration brought it to his mouth. After only a few sips, the glass vial crashed to the floor. He leaned over the arm of his chair, vomiting.

"No good." Cassandra sighed ruefully, laying a comforting hand on Cullen's shoulder. Her nose crunched and her forehead wrinkled, eyes clamped shut as she tried to comprehend the thought she now entertained. "Cole… if you really wish to help the commander, go to the kitchens for some crackers. We must settle his stomach first."

"Okay!" And without delay, he disappeared. Cassandra shook her head in dismay.

In the meantime, she poured Cullen another cup of water. "If you are feeling unwell, you should not push yourself. It only makes it worse."

"I had things to do," he retorted obstinately, carefully sipping his water. Luckily, his stomach did not retaliate.

The Seeker would have argued, but Cole reappeared at that second. Much to her disappointment, he did not have crackers. Instead, a small linen pouch dangled from his fingers. "Cole, that is not… what is that?"

"Tea," he answered earnestly.

She tried to put a handle on her rising frustration. "I did not ask for tea."

"The tea will help. It is Ora's."

Cassandra's shoulders straightened in alarm. "You took that from the Inquisitor's quarters?"

"Yes."

"You cannot simply take things that are not yours."

"She would want me to. She knows it helps him."

Her mouth opened, but Cullen cut her off. "Save your energy, Lady Seeker."

"What? Ugh. Very well." She barked at the healer standing uselessly beside her. "You, go fetch a kettle. And something he can eat." He did so with a terrified enthusiasm. "Cole, you know I have little patience for nonsense. Next time, do as you are told."

Ignoring her, the spirit examined the bag curiously as Cassandra locked one door and secured the other. "Leaves lifted lovingly from the stalk, happy to heal for the hands that harvest them. Soft, subtle, soothing, reminds him of her—"

"That is enough, Cole." Cullen interrupted weakly though authoritatively, clearing his throat. "Thank you."

A strange look painted the boy's face as he came to a conclusion in his mind. "I'm sorry." Setting the pouch on the desk, Cole lowered his head and again vanished without a trace.

Cassandra's exhalation carried hints of frustration. "I do not think I will ever grow accustomed to his presence. Half the time I do not even know of what he speaks."

"Including this time, I gather." Cullen rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Might as well ask me now, while I am weak."

"What is with this tea business?"

"The Inquisitor makes it when she knows I do not feel well."

One of her thin, dark eyebrows quirked upward. "I… see."

"It's not as strong as a draught. It settles my stomach and gradually rids my headaches."

"Perhaps you should ask her for some, if it helps you so."

"That would be the wise thing to do, yes."

"So why have you not?"

"It's not as simple as you think. I'd rather leave it to her."

"Well for your sake perhaps you should learn."

"It seems I don't have much choice." The handle of the door jiggled as someone on the other side struggled to open it. Cassandra intervened, and the healer with a steaming kettle and a plate of toasted bread entered, winded and red-faced underneath his whiskers. The Seeker thanked the man and sent him on his way, much to his relief.

"Would you like me to do it?"

"No. I can manage." With a concerted effort on his part, Cullen grabbed the handle of the kettle and lifted it no more than an inch from the desktop and struggled to maintain even that altitude. "Andraste preserve me."

"Here." Cassandra took the kettle from his grasp without hesitation, pouring the hot water into his cup. Cullen pried open the drawstring pouch. Three pinches later, tea leaves danced on the surface of the water, gradually expanding and settling. "Now what?"

"We wait."

"Eat this, then." She shoved the plate of toast before him.

Unaffected by the brusque gesture, he thanked her and dragged the plate closer to him. He nibbled warily, eyes transfixed on the swirling leaves. Cassandra leaned against the desk, arms folded at her chest. After a minute or two, Cullen finally took a sip and grimaced.

"Too hot?"

"No, no. It tastes as it should. Awful." He set it back down, already feeling relieved. All air escaped his lungs as he slumped back into his seat.

"It smells like the forest after a light rain."

He cracked one eye open. "Very poetic of you, Lady Cassandra."

"You mock me."

"No. I agree." Soft, subtle, soothing. His eyelid fell back down languidly as he took a deep breath. "You are free to go, Lady Cassandra. I will be all right."

She seemed reluctant, but she knew what his suggestion implied. "Rest, Commander. I will have someone bring you broth for supper."

"Thank you."

Pushing off the desk, the Nevarran left without another word. Cullen let the silence surround him like water, hoping it would lift all the pressure from his limbs and drown out the noise in his head. When the tea was nearly gone, his hopes finally seemed to manifest. Everything had calmed. Random muscle spasms and waves of nausea came over him every once in a while, but it was nothing compared to before.

Legs creaking, arms straining, he lifted himself from his chair and approached the ladder leading to his loft. The wash basin his destination, each rung an ordeal, Cullen fought for breath by the time he got to it. The water turned murky almost instantly. Rubbing his eyes, he glared into the cloudiness as if it had something to say. The commander pulled the shirt from his body and used it to dry his face. When he looked back down at it, splotches of blood and vomit at the collar, he let it fall listlessly to the wooden floorboards. Cullen buried his face in his hands, jaw clenched until it cramped.

His fingers gradually dug deeper and harder into his face. He barely breathed. The pain had been worse, but was it the worst? The question tied his stomach in knots.

Maker, he was afraid.

He eventually brought his hands before him, studying them for reasons even he did not know. He persisted as his legs turned of their own accord to his bed, never once looking away from his hands. Before laying, he dropped to his knees and kneeled. He watched how neatly his hands came together. He prayed.

"O Maker, hear my cry:  
>Guide me through the blackest nights<br>Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked  
>Make me to rest in the warmest places.<p>

O Creator, see me kneel:  
>For I walk only where You would bid me<br>Stand only in places You have blessed  
>Sing only the words You place in my throat<p>

My Maker, know my heart  
>Take from me a life of sorrow<br>Lift me from a world of pain  
>Judge me worthy of Your endless pride<p>

My Creator, judge me whole:  
>Find me well within Your grace<br>Touch me with fire that I be cleansed  
>Tell me I have sung to Your approval<p>

O Maker, hear my cry:  
>Seat me by Your side in death<br>Make me one within Your glory  
>And let the world once more see Your favor<p>

For You are the fire at the heart of the world  
>And comfort is only Yours to give."<p>

He awoke to the closing of his office door. A red-orange light filtered through the hole in his ceiling: sunset. He did not move despite it. For a moment, he felt as if he could not. His body seemed to resonate on the same frequency as everything around him. He had to focus on feeling: the comfort of the sheets, the warmth of the sun, the chill of the breeze. He had to pick it all apart and separate himself.

He sat up. Again, he stared at the hands in his lap. He blinked slowly, thoughtfully. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Cullen lowered his feet to the wooden boards beneath them.

Descending, he found a tray with a bowl of broth, as Cassandra had promised, accompanied by a stack of letters. Drinking from the bowl with one hand and sifting through the documents with the other, one caught his eye.

* * *

><p>While the Inquisitor found herself rather delayed in the Exalted Plains, Rylen and his forces more than established a foothold in the Western Approach. With Griffon Wing Keep secured, water sources located and utilized, and researchers working to dispel the noxious gases in some areas of the desert, things were so far going smoothly, relatively speaking. Hawke and Alistair came and went as they conducted their investigations while helping thin the bandit and wildlife threat at the same time. With everything set against them – from blistering heat to darkspawn – the Inquisition was well on its way to stabilizing the region.<p>

By the time the Inquisitor arrived with her companions, she added her own weight to the cause. Within two weeks she dealt with the dragon that sometimes flew menacingly overhead and curbed the appearance of darkspawn with her Warden ally. Rylen found himself in awe at her pace as well as her efficacy; the unsuspecting Dalish elf carried herself with a sort of elegant ferocity, hidden behind bright eyes and an honest smile, that he did not think she was even aware she possessed. Her metamorphosis was indeed enthralling; no wonder Cullen found himself smitten with her.

They often met in the mornings for debriefings, and this particular morning he handed her a stack of correspondences from Skyhold. Rummaging through them, eyes skimming, the elf halted suddenly at the sight of one specifically.

_I pray this finds you well, Inquisitor. I thought you would want to see this as soon as possible and so have sent it at the earliest convenience. I am told that the agent known as Jester will remain in Wycome and continues to monitor the situation. The implication of red lyrium is troubling, but Lady Josephine, Sister Leliana, and I all stand ready should any new developments arise. I hope this puts your mind at ease so that you may focus on the task at hand. The Western Approach is a harsh place, as I'm sure you know. Should you have further inquiries or concerns, it goes without saying that Rylen will assist you. _

_On a more frivolous note, I've somehow managed to make the tea taste worse when I brew it. I did not think it was possible._

_Maker watch over you.  
><em>_Cullen_

The captain watched her read the letter from the corner of his eye, and it amused him how her face morphed from one of tired seriousness to tired delight. He wondered if maybe, just maybe, his friend might give the whole thing a chance.

He did not expect the contentment to melt from her face so quickly. He also did not expect her eyes to dart in his direction, swirling with concern.

"Feel free to not answer," she began cautiously, taking a few steps in his direction, "but you work closely with Cull—the commander. How… How has he been? Whenever I ask he always says the same."

"'I shall endure,' right?"

She let out a laugh of relief mixed with disappointment. "Yes. I only ask because what he has written here gives me cause for concern. But perhaps I am overthinking things." The commander hated the taste of the tea, so his only reasons for drinking it would be for its medicinal effects, she gathered. For him to do so of his own volition sent up a red flag in Ora's mind.

Rylen found himself a tad conflicted. She was the Inquisitor, she was personally worried about Cullen, but he did not want to divulge information the commander himself was not willing to reveal. He sighed. "Are you familiar with the rest of the verse?"

"Verse?"

"Yes. It is from the Canticle of Trials.

Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,  
>I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm.<br>I shall endure.  
>What you have created, no one can tear asunder."<p>

At first, Rylen was unsure if, as a member of the Dalish, the Inquisitor would understand what he was trying to say. But the grim and troubled gleam in her eyes turned the feeling to certainty.

"Thank you, Rylen," she said after a pause, her voice a soft, low hum.

* * *

><p>The full might of the Inquisition army descended into the desert of the Western Approach, leveling dunes with sheer volume and determination. The merciless sun and sandstorms did their best to hinder their advance, but nothing could be enough to hamper their progress. The major undertaking that had been re-outfitting the fighting men and women paid off in a big way; though insufferable as traversing the expanses of sand had been, it could have been much, much worse. In place of their typical uniform was an armor of ingenious design, utilizing more mail than plates. The light colors chosen did not absorb the sun's heat as readily as darker hues, and boots reached high enough to the knee that sand rarely found its way in them.<p>

The commander's own bearskin mantle had been replaced by a more intricate version of the other soldiers' scarves, wrapping multiple times atop his armored shoulders and providing both a hood and mask against the whipping sands and fierce rays of the sun. The skillfully embroidered ends flapped behind him as he led them further west until Inquisition insignias and flags began to appear. After a long and arduous march, Griffon Wing Keep emerged from below the horizon, and they all breathed a collective sigh of relief.

As a bulk of the forces set up camp around the keep itself, Cullen and most of the other officers rode directly through the gates to be greeted by those within. Rylen gave them a tour and updated them all on progress made and still being made. The Inquisitor and her team at that moment were out tying up loose ends and would be back by sundown.

At that point, it had been over three months since Ora had left Skyhold for the Exalted Plains, and to say Cullen was anxious would be an understatement. He had grown used to her absence, but as soon as the reality set in that she would be near him in a matter of hours, his heart hammered against his ribcage. It felt longer than it had been. Clapping and cheering started to sound outside the keep in the late afternoon as the Inquisitor's party filed down the path through the giant campground to the front gates.

"Maker preserve me," the commander muttered under his breath without much intention. A hand settling on his shoulder nearly made him jump. Rylen smiled at him supportively.

"Why don't you go wait in her office?" he offered with subtle amusement lining his voice. "Pretend to be doing something. I'll let her know." He was only half joking. Cullen scowled but turned and did just that. It took all Rylen had not to burst out laughing.

Ora's office was less that and more her sleeping quarters separated by a length of thick curtain. Opposite a glassless opening in the stonework sat a small table, topped with a tattered runner, documents, a quill, an inkwell, and an oil lamp. Rylen's latest report tucked under his arm, the commander nestled himself by the window, using the light of the sun to read, eyes running over sentences but never absorbing the words. When the Inquisitor walked in, he meant to speak up, to alert her to his presence. But the breath caught in his throat.

She was a mess. Absolutely covered in blood (not her own, he hoped), dirt, sweat, and sand, Ora set her staff against the wall, donning a set of armor he did not recognize. It looked distinctly elven, with hefty pauldrons, mail sleeves, and fingerless greaves. Soiled as it was, though, he did not know for sure. It just was certainly not Inquisition issue. Not that it mattered. Anyone else seeing her in such a state would probably find themselves repulsed, but for the commander, he was anything but. And that confused him.

Her hazel eyes detected him almost immediately. Was he just imagining the way her face seemed to brighten? "Cullen!" Was he just imagining how happy his name rolled off her tongue? "It is good to see you! How are you?"

He did not realize he was beaming. "I am well, Inquisitor."

"I am glad to hear it." Ora peeled off her gauntlets and set them on the table. "The trip here is nothing short of excruciating. I can't even imagine making it with an entire army." Her optimism paired with her gruesome appearance made for quite a sight.

"It, ah… was an ordeal, to be sure. H-How are you?" He kicked himself for taking so long to ask.

"Disgusting, as you can see." Ora gestured to herself in good humor.

"A woman who does what needs to be done is never disgusting, Your Worship. You wear it well."

The elf sucked in her lips to suppress an amused grin, hands resting on her hips. Neither of them could maintain a steady gaze. "Thank you." Ora steeled herself and ousted the momentary lull settling between them. "Is there something you need, Commander? Or are you just here to compliment me?"

Though a lighthearted tease, it was bold for Ora, and it left her mouth before she could really choose otherwise. Dorian must be rubbing off on her. It caught Cullen off-guard as well, and he was lucky enough to have the sun shining from behind to shadow his face. Nevertheless, he rubbed the back of his neck and cleared his throat, Adam's apple jumping with a hard swallow. "No," he managed airly, half-formed bashful chuckles mixed in. "A few matters need attending, though I may bring them to you later if you wish to get cleaned up."

"That would be ideal, if that is alright with you."

"Of course." Cullen headed towards the exit. He stopped short of the threshold. "Oh, I should just leave this with you." Reaching into the folds of fabric on his armor, Cullen extracted an envelope and a crude burlap bag tied with twine. He held it out to her. "Sister Leliana managed to locate the Hero of Ferelden. She sent this back for you."

"For me?" Ora's wide eyes jumped from the package to Cullen's face multiple times as if she did not believe him. She took it with an odd sort of innocent reverence. "Thank you."

"I will find you later, then."

Ora still gazed down at the items in her hands. "Yes." She snapped out of her daze and sent him a grateful smile. "Find me later."

* * *

><p>Ora bathed, dressed, and met everyone for supper as the sun struggled to stay in the sky. It felt so nice to have everyone together again, especially those she had to leave behind. Solas was still missing, however; he needed time after what happened to his friend in the Exalted Plains. She could not fathom what it would be like to lose a good friend, and as she sat in a circle of them, she hoped with all her heart he was well. Hawke and Varric had most of the gathering in uproarious laughter; Alistair, she assumed, wanted some time to be alone after he received the letter the Hero had written for him. He had reacted rather emotionally, and Ora had left him quicker than she'd have liked – mostly so he would not notice her own tears pooling in her eyes.<p>

In hopes of assuaging Bull's disappointment in being absent for her latest dragon encounter, she offered him a gift of one of its teeth, soon to learn a cultural aspect of qunari culture that left her embarrassed and the object of everyone's hilarity for the next twenty minutes afterward. Sera nearly died of asphyxiation from laughing too hard at her notion that Iron Bull would "break her in half."

Perhaps the most shocking aspect of the dinner was that Madame de Fer actually joined them – though still apart from the main group, she made eating rations as graceful as one ever could and seemed to listen in on the discussion. She spoke up after this particular incident.

"Nothing against you, Bull dear, but if you are to be bound to anyone, darling, it should be someone with power and reputation. Someone who will _elevate_ you."

"Pffbt, bunch of piss, that."

Dorian twirled one end of his moustache, eyes gleaming and mouth crooked in a grin. "For once I am inclined to agree with Sera, Vivienne, though I am curious to learn what you think our Ora here could possibly gain from such an arrangement. She is, after all, the Inquisitor."

"She could gain all manners of things, my dear. It depends on what she needs. Gold? A vote? Influence? Recognition? Maker knows the Inquisition still has room to grow."

"Yeah, but no prissy noble arsehole will want to marry. She's too elfy. And magic."

"Who said anything about _marry_, dear?"

"Eck, so you just mean bits on bits for stuff that doesn't matter? No, if it matters then it shouldn't _matter. _You want it to matter." Everyone sent Sera a collection of puzzled glances. She did not notice and continued shoveling food into her mouth.

Varric noticed Ora's horrified expression and butted in. "How about we change the subject?"

* * *

><p>Cullen approached Ora after mealtime. As soon as night fell, the two of them plus Alistair and Hawke left the keep so that he may take a look at Adamant Fortress himself. The moon shone bright enough that evening to give off ample light, and heading out at such an hour allowed them to bypass the sun's heat and the heightened likelihood of detection. Though the reports were detailed and Leliana had found blueprints of the bastion, he wanted to get a good idea, in person, of what they would be dealing with in a matter of days.<p>

Galloping most of the way, the group slowed as they neared a safe yet informative distance.

"I got your note." The Inquisitor and the commander trailed behind the Champion and the Warden. It took Cullen a few seconds to notice that Ora was indeed speaking to him.

"Oh?" was all he managed.

"Yes. I was a bit worried."

"Why?"

"You? Making tea on your own? Were you feeling alright?" She undoubtedly meant the question to be humorous, but it vibrated with an underlying apprehension.

Cullen failed to pick up on it. "Seeing as I continued to try, I must not have been."

Ora let out a series of chuckles. "I will find a tea you like, I promise. That way you won't have to suffer so."

The commander shifted in his saddle, adjusting the reins in his grasp, leather squelching against leather. "No need to trouble yourself on my account. Suffering suits me just fine."

"Don't say that."

"No use wasting your breath, Ora. He's always been that way, since Kirkwall." Hawke had since drifted back to them, inserting herself into their bout of banter. Being trapped in the Approach together, the two mages grew to get along quite well. Hawke's antics were as infectious as Sera's – though perhaps not nearly as bizarre – and the jovial sarcasm she brought to almost any situation could be both refreshing and shocking. Ora almost felt as if she had to learn another language to wade through all of the sarcastic comments consistently being thrown around by Indira and Alistair during that time. Cullen was not so well-equipped, regardless of the fact that he worked with Hawke in the past. Hawke knew he had grown complacent with people actually taking him seriously and exploited that to her advantage.

"And you were always terrible at minding your own business," he retorted right on cue. Just like old times.

"Oh yeah? If I'd minded my business, you'd likely be dead!"

The four inevitably changed places in their formation. Alistair and Ora now rode side-by-side and sent each other knowing glances.

Cullen took the bait as he had so many times before. "Yes, you 'saved' my life and then went on to make it a thousand times worse."

Hawke set her fists on her hips and scrunched her face, bobbing from side to side as if to emulate a strutting, stuck-up templar. "Pesky mages, always making your life difficult." She closed in on the commander and leaned towards him. "Maybe you should have just taken me to the Circle then, _like you were supposed to_."

That did not go over well. He raised his voice higher than he intended. "You know very well that—" He stopped. What was this? Was Cullen actually realizing what Hawke was doing? "You have not changed a bit." That seemed to be the case.

The feat failed to impress her. "I could name _one _thing that's changed about you."

"Don't."

"_Curly."_ She sneered playfully. He sent her a death glare. "Oh, stop it, you know I'm only messing with you. You're my favorite templar! Want to know why? Because you were the _worst_ templar."

"Maker's breath."

Ora piped up, much to everyone's astonishment. "Sounds like you should thank Cullen then, Hawke."

The Champion's brow dropped, eyes moving from side to side. "What?"

"Can't very well be a Champion from a Circle now, can you? Him being the _worst_ templar may have been the best thing to happen to you."

Cullen cantered past her with the most smug shit-eating grin ever conceived by a mortal man, again situating himself beside the Inquisitor.

"Why are you smirking? She still said you were the worst." Where was Varric when she needed him?

The formation had completely reversed now: Cullen and Ora rode ahead while an entertained Alistair and an outdone Hawke trailed behind. The elf met the commander's appreciative smirk with a supportive grin of her own. "I suppose I am on that list of pesky mages. Making your life difficult is a remarkable skill of mine."

He cocked a single brow. The pride from his recent victory against Hawke fueled his current lofty attitude. "The only lives you make difficult are the Venatori. Also demons, dragons, bandits, Red Templars…"

She cut him off before he could go on, no less flattered, however. "I will take that as a compliment."

"I do not see how it could be considered anything but."

"You may want to reconsider your response." Cullen followed Ora's pointed finger to see Adamant emerge over a dune, its black walls shining dully in the moonlight. It was as impressive as it was imposing, its sharp architecture contrasting the rolling hills of sand surrounding it but otherwise fitting in with the foreboding chasm it guarded. The four came to a halt, their horses stamping uncomfortably.

"There is nothing to reconsider." Cullen calmingly patted his stallion's muscular neck before he dismounted; Hawke and Alistair followed suit. The commander held out his hand to Ora, helping her down from her steed. "I shall just add Grey Wardens to your growing list."

His words came out much warmer than she anticipated, much softer, though somehow amplified by his unusually close proximity. It was easy enough to blame the goosebumps on the cool desert night, but the voices in her mind all screamed, wondering if he had actually done that on purpose. No one is suave and charming accidentally, especially the assertive yet somehow awkward commander.

"Uhm, can we change that item to _some_ Wardens, perhaps?" Alistair mosied past them. "Because, well, you know."

Creators bless that man for pulling her out of that stupor. She trailed him, Cullen and Hawke doing the same. "You're on an entirely different list, Alistair. Not to worry."

"Ooh, which one?"

"The 'My Favorite Wardens Named Alistair List,' of course." They all stopped just before reaching the peak of a hill. The commander produced a spyglass and began his silent observation.

"I have my own _list?_ I really am your favorite."

That ushered a good few laughs from the Inquisitor. "Of course you are! The Hero is a lucky woman."

Now, Hawke was glaring a hole into the commander's back, scouring her mind for something – anything – to knock him back down a few notches. She had noticed the whole suspect exchange between him and Ora when she'd gotten down from her horse, but she boiled that down to mere cheesy, archaic chivalry; however, when Cullen tore his attention from the fortress with an expression of what seemed to be alarm at the Inquisitor's sarcasm – which he obviously did not pick up – she knew she had something. Perhaps Varric could confirm it for her.

"Funny, I tell her that all the time. Maybe now she'll believe me."

"Perhaps we should focus on the fortress for the time being." Or maybe she wouldn't need Varric after all.

"Yes. Definitely. Fate of the world and all that. Feels oddly familiar… I wonder why. Oh, _right_."


End file.
